I’m terrible at this. Express how I am, ask you to do the same, then say I’m sorry. You ask me why. Because it’s natural. Because I’m isolated, and you’re the only person I can cling to. I’ll lose you too.
I remember the times my father wouldn’t pay me attention. How I learned to cope by belittling myself. What stays will flee. What flees can come back. We return to ourselves. Sometimes people return to us. Sometimes they don’t.
When we pass, I hope there’s a sunset that doesn’t exist on earth that we’ll get to see. All those colors I couldn’t absorb. The brown in your eyes is the same brown in mine. The blue I watched has turned grey.
I’m painting again. I stopped years ago. I’m moving the brush and carrying the weight of the world on a canvas. My heart’s in it. My mind’s not. I’m overthinking again.
I lost an item from my closet. I blame my mother because she touches things she shouldn’t. She used to tell me it’s normal to feel her hands search my body when I was a kid. I thought everyone’s mother did the same.
I lied to myself for years. People who take care of you are supposed to be good. They’re supposed to be gods. I wanted to turn out like them. Now I just want to be that one grain of sand that nobody touches. The one that can sway in the ocean and live peacefully.
Peace is being alone. Peace is swimming naked with someone who loves you when they don’t have to. I float with my imaginary lover. I tell him to calm himself. That nothing in this life is worth losing your sanity over. But I will always lose my limbs for people who don’t care for me.
I will chase and chase wondering why it all went wrong. I won’t receive answers. There’s never enough closure. But this should be enough. The silence. The realization that you did too much. And they never would have done the same.
You knew this. You move on. You repeat this bad habit. This ritual. Suffer to be the sufferer and hope you see God on the other side, commending you. You did well. You stayed loyal. You remained pure. How come you’re still sad? Didn’t you follow the Bible’s words? Didn’t you emulate Mother Mary?
Swaddle your child and tell him that this world’s as evil as you let it be. Tell him this will pass. But there will be plenty of blood before it does. Some of this blood will be on his hands. The hands of people he loves. The rest will be concealed by those who thrive on hurting the helpless.
Didn’t they tell you to become strong? That the weak will have unmarked graves while the powerful will have headstones made of blue granite. That sometimes, you must listen to those you hate. And those who hate you must listen to you too. That there’s something to be learned, not necessarily changed.
One day you’ll grieve just as anyone else. And you’ll have to learn how to distance yourself from it. Because the years will be unkind. You’ll come back to the child within you. This child hasn’t healed. This child has seen too much but can’t express it. Shut it down, they say. Swallow it whole and don’t tell anyone. And you do.
And I did. I’m sorry I couldn’t pull your mouth open to help you say, I don’t want this. This isn’t right. To place your palm on your heart and remind you that you’re a breathing thing. You’re not meant to be crushed and to immediately stand. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I still don’t know how to love you.
I mix blame into my smoothie each morning. Blend it and drink it. Roam around and feel unworthy in every occupied building. I feel something for him. I finally tell him. Insecurities dress me, and I push him away. There’s no point. He won’t come back for me. I’ll remain the same.
I’m not good enough. Don’t you see? You are, you are. I’m not worthy. Don’t say that. You are, you are. But this is how I feel. Feelings aren’t real. Thoughts are. No, thoughts aren’t real. Feelings are. No, nothing is real.
Swim in the deep end. Touch the concrete and don’t come back up. Learn how to hold your breath in times of stress. In times of heartache. Learn to accept that no one and nothing will ever pull you back up. Your own mother wouldn’t reach out her hand. Nor would your father. So who’s left?
If you can’t do this on your own, you will die. Not the kind of death that has a scent. The death that’s happening inside. That’s eating the last thriving part. You were a victim. You’ll always be. But some things are not to be carried. Find yourself but only if you can lose yourself just the same.
truth