Vulnerable Metal

They called me brave when they weren’t even there. That is the same as fake promises.

They rejected me in a poetry competition because my poetry is too literal and my metaphors are too linear. They want my poetry to loosen up  and gain from deeper metaphors, but I think that it boils down  to the personal preference. 

My body doesn’t feel like home at all. I feel angry at it when it asks me to work out or if it’s hungry while I am focusing and doing something important. I don’t have respect for my body’s needs, but I fulfill them anyway because I know that soon it will get even more irritating.

My mother would always buy me clothes too big so I can’t admire and appreciate my body or clothes too skinny, so I don’t feel comfortable in it. She would comment on how I pronounce words and how I speak, so I don’t feel at ease while speaking at all.

I shaked while I spoke in front of my classmates. I would spend two hours in front of a mirror picking the perfect outfit for school.

Now I understand why.

The ally of broken hearts is where there are no lights or beliefs about universe or karma. There are no beliefs about anything, no positivism or misogyny, not even a pure emptiness because that one is peaceful.

Only emptiness that pushes you to rebuild yourself and dozens bottles of anger bottled up under sand, impossible to dig up without growing in the process.