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@nush-writes
Mother, your words shoot me like a bullet on my chest. Your anger slices me apart like a knife through butter. But mother, your love is deep like the ocean, and I'm drowning and drowning, I don't know how to swim. Mother, I love you but your love, cuts my wounds open. Yours broken, like a glass, and when I come to hug you, it stings. You ask me mother, why I created a distance, why did I choose the silence? Mother, I want us both to stop hurting.
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A mother is a child's first home, a confidant, a safe place. These are the things I've heard people say. But my mother was a fire, that consumed me. And I couldn't complain, because she herself was burning. And everything turned into ashes, from my mother's fury.
I've got scars and burns all over my skin, she refuses to have seen. Not once did my mother bring me a remedy, for the wounds that she has caused me. I grieve a mother who could have loved me, unconditionally.
But I still love her, because a child would still turn to her mother, even if the mother hurts the child. It's not her fault you see, she's like roses, beautiful, but full of thorns.
My mother, she tried. To love me. To love a sensitive child, with her thorns. It's not her fault. She held me tight, and it hurt me more, every time she tried. Her words are sharp as a knife. But she was raised between swords.
She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not. Oh mother, you're a battle I fought. And I am dead as a soldier from war. For once, can there be no fight? Fir once, could you love me right? I'd look for your love, all my life.
Miles and miles, I've come so far,
my legs are hurting, my feet is scarred.
I thought this road was taking me,
to the destination I always wished to reach.
But now as I look back, I can see,
this was not a choice that I made.
It was shaped by what they all perceived,
so I traced my footsteps beck to the start.
I'm going to walk my own right path.
And even if it takes miles more,
at least I'll be assured that I made the choice on my own.
When I shut my eyes, it's pitch black, when I open them again I see vivid colours, so beautiful, each one of them, painting my world so exquisite, in different hues. But I blink and it goes away, maybe the world, after all, is colourless. It's a mere facade.
My Melancholia - Anushka
There is a kind of teenage melancholy that adults don't understand. It's probably because they've become numb to a lot of things. I believe everyone goes through it and some eventually forget what it's like. When you turn thirteen, nothing has gone wrong in your life or in this world for you. Yet your emotions are complex. It feels like nobody understands you. How can someone so young have melancholy in their soul?
They can. Because for a little teenager, friendship is their whole world but the sad part is friendships break. Teenagers have crushes but it never works out. It's a kind of heartbreak. And while you're naive and young you feel things very deeply. Failures are the end of the world and being excluded feels threatening. So you try harder to be included and in the process you might lose your own identity. You try to love yourself but there's a constant comparison, the others always look cooler or smarter or prettier. You get insecure. However you have a favourite artist and favourite song and you cope, watching TV, listening to radio, a sad song that understands you.
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Happiness was there when I sat in my dad's car, passenger seat, my dad driving around that small town. Happiness was there when I laughed until my stomach ached with my best friend in school. Happiness was there on my thirteenth birthday and on my seventeenth. Happiness was there, when I went with my parents shopping for groceries. Happiness was there and I was too blind to notice it. Happiness was there when I was in college and carefree, not stressing about jobs and bills. Happiness was there when my nights weren't spent worrying but texting him. When we had all the time in the world. Happiness was there. I didn't see.
All my life I couldn't enjoy even a moment of happiness because I kept anticipating things for the future and grieving for the past.
Oh, how many suicides I've committed inside of my mind!
They're the reason that today, I'm alive.
The idea always saved me. The idea that I could just escape and end it all.
The idea that it will free me from every suffering. Like a door opening to heaven.
But I always postponed it, and gave myself another chance.
Because once I walk through that door, I won't be able to try anymore.
I won't be able to build the life I could have. So, I'll postpone it. One more time.
If you want it bad enough, you will chase it. That one dream. No matter how many hurdles you face you'll keep going. If you fall several times you will pick yourself up again no matter what. It will become your routine. It will be so well incorporated in your life you won't forget it. And no matter how much chaos there is you will stick to it. If you have to try and fail several times you will try everything. If you want it bad enough you will forget to sleep. You will dream and dream endlessly. But you will also act on it, every single day. And even if you fail one day you'll try again the next day. If you give it up, it wasn't truly your dream. But if it is then you'll stay. And one day, without realisation you will be on the top of the world, at your desired destination. And when you look back there'd be miles and miles you've left behind, it's a reminder of how far you came.
What will I do if I achieved it all? I've been chasing my dreams for so long. But when I think of having everything I wished for, there's a strange kind of emptiness that comes along with that thought. I've been at constant war, with myself, with my reality, that the thought of peace unsettles me. What does an injured soldier do after the war is over? When there's finally peace, but his brain chemistry changes forever from prolonged stress, he suffers from PTSD, flashbacks from war, bullet wounds still unhealed. There's a strange kind of emptiness, that comes at the thought of no longer fighting. To be healed, to feel safe, is a luxury, do I even deserve it? A lover, a home of ours, and laying in each other's arms, protected from the world, is it even possible, is it only a dream? If it came true, what would become of me? I'm always scared and paranoid, that another war will break, and I will have to fight again.
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They think narcissists are dangerous, or psychopaths or an antisocial person. But what's more dangerous honey, is an empath, who is hyper aware. The empath that knows you're messing with them. They know what the fuck you're up to, and they're observant and quiet. They don't make noise. And when it's time they'll fuck you up quietly, without you knowing it.
And I know now, that I won't die. Everything tried to kill me but I survived. Sadness tried to kill me. Depression tried to kill me. Loneliness tried to kill me. I, myself tried to kill me. Everyone who loved me, almost killed me. Love almost killed me. But I am alive. So, I know that I will fucking rise even after the darkest night.
I can sew a million poems, about how I feel, but the matter is, who will care to read?
Do not love me. Slit my throat but do not love me. Love is unbearable. Love makes me vulnerable. Love makes me act like a madwoman. If you ever see me in love, shoot me at sight.
Mother, your anger will someday swallow me whole. Mother, your anger will burn us all. And when nothing remains, who will you pour your anger on?
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You cannot judge or blame someone for grieving for too long for a loss that you didn't experience.
"Get out of it," they say, as all my friends and all the people I know try to drag me out of my grief. They fail. What they never tried was to sit with me for a while in this darkness instead of dragging me into the light. For someone who's found comfort in the dark, cannot easily get out of here, until there's a hand to hold, until there's a shoulder to cry on.