9divine9

“You should write a novel about your life”, something she’d often hear. Yeah sure, her life was— peculiar to say the least and I guess it’s a life worth the write but it definitely wasn’t something anyone actually wanted to hear. Especially on the precipice of their roaring twenties. Who has a life that bad before their twenties that it’s worth writing about? She didn’t wanna hear that, feel it, especially when she wanted to make something out of herself first. Or maybe too often it was the idea of having to make something out of herself that had burdened her. The struggle, it had to have been worth it of course if she.. made something out of herself. Right?

You turn 18 and you can vote, so you celebrate turning 18. You turn 19, okay no one actually celebrates that, you’re just 19. You turn 20 and damn you’re 20, you’re just a twenty-teen! You turn 21 and you celebrate being able to finally buy alcohol on your own and walk into bars like you’re the shit. You turn 22 and you celebrate .. what do you celebrate? Oh yeah, your Bachelor’s Degree. What about so on and so on? Is it twenty-teen until she’s thirty-teen? She’ll keep celebrating until it constantly feels like she's on the precipice of something great? And nothing actually ever fucking happens?

But she thought too, what happened to normalcy? The struggle to just be.. perfectly normal. Be alright. What about that? The movies had warped her idea that with struggle came greatness, but what if greatness was just— no longer being in that dark place and living a completely normal life? And with a sigh, she dropped her pen and began to wonder when she’d ever actually start writing.

you're sick of me, & i can tell. so you resorted to the next best thing, another girl who looks like me but is reserved, softer spoken, & indecisive. so you can be the man you always wanted to be & lead her into your arms. i was that fool not too long ago i still am, i let my emotions in the moment get the best of me

but i stay reserved, quiet, & let you fall in love with a girl who looks just like me is she me without the hurt? is she me without the baggage of exposing your mistakes? is she everything you always wanted?

another girl who looks like me—same hair color, same eyes, same rolling of tongues, same green olive skin, same soft voice all of that but without the mistakes you put on her how does it feel? another girl who stores your phone with photos of herself and laughs that echo with the smoothness of her voice all of that but without the hurt you put her through how does it feel?

there's this memory of when you broke my heart, where trust was lost, & i was at my weakest bones protruding outside my skin, salt grinding my lash lines

and still— because i had nobody i let you take advantage of me even though i knew it was wrong

you asked, and i gave you my all and still— it wasn't enough

you prodded me with questions i didn't want to answer, to touches i didn't want to feel, and breaths i didn't want stolen and still— it wasn't enough

It stops halfway because I begin to get angry with myself for crying. Upset at the thought of taking everything so personally.

What if i disappeared? Then what? Are my shadows weary enough to follow me into the darker depths than they already are?

My heart skips a beat at the thought of hurting another person with my existence.

I’m sorry. For burdening you with my worries. I whisper as I hold my hands tightly together and take a step backwards.

I’ll never be too white enough, hair not blonde enough. Yet you find it fit to seek adventure and solitude in mountains where most people look like me.

The irony I cannot understand. But the empathy I do.

There is love when I told you I couldn’t anymore.

There is love when I walked away.

There is love when I chose myself.

There is love when I knew in my heart where I needed to be.

There is love when my blood boils at the thought of you.

There is love when I say enough is enough.

You complained about the sun while sitting under a tree while I sat burning on the asphalt.

I’ve been here before, elders announcing to a whole congregation on how bad a person you are for coming forward with your story.

I’ve been here before, men seeing this as an opportunity to know you’re vulnerable.

I’ve been here before, people whispering in the congregation about how could you do that to him?

I’ve been here before, contemplating death as an answer to this pain.

Did it make you feel better? I hope it did, I hope the last words you spoke to me run through your mind like sugar on fire. So sweet, so bitter, that it burns to the touch.

I hope the words play in your mind like a mantra, again, again, and again, the burnt smoke filling up your brain with blacked fog—

exhausting you every minute you replay it in your mind.

But it’s humorous actually, to believe you’d feel guilt for your actions. I don’t believe devils feel remorse.

So there I bury the bones of what was once left of me.

the words slipped out of her lips with ease, her grinning smile & laughter falling onto me like broken glass, seeping deeper & deeper onto my now bloodied skin.

In darkness, my hand grasps for something in the air that’s not there— Hope? Love? Well, it’s gone now. For this, for you.

There’s nothing that can repair what you said to me. Everything shattered the moment you let it slither beyond your tongue with that snicker of malice.

“I’m exhausting”, I repeat to myself as I stare into my eyes through the mirror, “My existence is exhausting.”

I repeat the words like a mantra until tears form at the thought of me being a burden— as always, again, a burden on myself and others I thought had once loved me.

My heart aches at the thought, I can’t possibly be here again. When I tried so hard to claw out of a cage that was built out of my own evocations. A little girl forced into a room again and again and again. No. Not anymore.

Was it love? Or was it control? Those two shades of gray seem to always be the same tone for a girl whose eyes are always blurred by tears.

“I’m exhausting”, I say again and again.

I repeat the words that struggle to form upon my trembling lips, the air feeling heavy with every breath, “I’m exhausting.”

So no longer “exhausting” will I be. To you— or to anyone who thinks so.

Oh how lovely the pangs of a broken heart can be fixed by a hug. A kiss. Three words of, “I love you!”

Oh how lovely a bruise turns into all sorts of colors to express its sorrowful pain. It’s purples, pinks, blues, and yellows.

Oh how lovely you are to get back up again after falling, over and over, and over again. Knees scraped up and bloodied but scars healing over time.

Oh how lovely to be surrounded by people who truly love you, for who you are, for your sadness, happiness, and everything in between.

Oh how lovely to create art from expression of pain, love, grief, and sorrow. Human expression and its rather peculiar emotions.