lost diarist ⋆˚꩜｡

The one who dresses how she wants to.

The one who expresses herself how she wants to.

The one who dances and spins around without a care in the world.

I want to embrace this version of myself and stop worrying about what others think of me. Perhaps, then I could stop criticising myself so often. Perhaps, then I could look at myself and be proud of who I am.

Because I cannot always be the girl who worries what some stranger on the street might think. I’ll waste my life away that way. I’ll wither and rot that way.

Every ‘no’ breaks my heart a little more when I see their face fall. They understand. They get it. They tell me it is alright.

Yet all I feel is disappointment and like I am in the wrong. The feeling creeps around my neck like vines—desperate for sunlight.

But instead of sunlight, they find the guilt I am drowning in.

I thought I was ready. It wouldn’t even be my first time. But I am scared. I am scared they will leave after getting what they want.

I doubt sex is ALL they want. But my mind is desperate to convince me otherwise.

Trigger warnings: implied sexual abuse, childhood trauma, violence, murder

“You asked me when it all started. I suppose it was the pigeon.

My parents told me I was mental when I ripped its head off. They called me rapid when I’d constantly bring animals’ bones from the forest into my room.

Though, all I heard then was just; “she’s rabbit.”

And so I pretended to be an animal for weeks after that. Crawling around. Eating only lettuce.

And then Alex—my father until he turned into something ugly and monstrous—told me he was going to fix me.

I still feel him under my bones. I don’t think I’ll ever be rid of him.

Ever since I was little, I have always dreamed of finding that one true love. And yet when I have a partner, I feel suffocated.

I used to think how can people choose to live alone, without a partner? But now? I think I might be starting to understand them.

Still, I'd like to believe that someone out there is still meant for me. And then I hate myself for such thoughts. I have a partner currently. I truly believed as though I loved them. But, with time passing and their cracks showing, I am being suffocated.

I don't know how many more 'why are you posting so many photos of yourself?' or 'the app showed you were active so you must be ignoring me.' I can take. And I know they mean well--or at least I hope so--but it really gets to a point. Honestly, in my gut I can sense a break up coming. Or, perhaps, that is something I am secretly hoping for.

Also, I want to be appreciated. I do not wish to be hidden. It seems like it's nothing, but I wish to be posted on instagram stories. I wish to be shown off--not because someone has me, but because they love me. I wish to be gifted 'just because' flowers.

They're not a bad person. Just not for me. Perhaps, there is no person for me. Perhaps, I am meant to write stories and live in solitude.

And though I do want children, perhaps, my stories and the characters I write about are those kids I wish I could have?

“If I were Orpheus I would not have turned around.”

Have you missed the story line completely?

“Orpheus was foolish for turning around.”

Love makes us stupid. That’s a saying, and the most fundamental truth. For he—Orpheus—turned. Out of love, not of foolishness. And though, most blame him for it, what else was he supposed to do? To walk with a nagging feeling that his Eurydice was not safe?

He felt it in his gut—something was whispering to him that his wife was not safe. And he turned. Damn him as much as you want to, but he did so out of love for Eurydice.

There are so many posts around the internet with the caption: “Walking without turning around to prove a point.”

But the truth is—you can’t. To love is to turn around. To turn around is to love. It is one and the same. A truth written down in stone, in stories over thousands of years old, reaching with its fingers to seep into the stories we make now.

If I were Orpheus, I would have turned. For Orpheus turned—not because he doubted—but because the silence behind him grew louder. Because to love is to feel—and he could no longer feel her there.

And I? I would have turned around the moment I thought my Eurydice was unsafe. I would have turned around and caught her, hoping to hold her safely in my arms. Even if it was the last time

In some way, we all are Orpheuses. We know the fear of not knowing if your heart is safe. We know the ache to check on the one you love—to make sure they have eaten, taken care of themselves. And some may call us foolish. But what is foolish about love?

No one called Aphrodite foolish. On the contrary, people feared her. So why should we say that something as ancient, strong and beautiful as love is foolish?

We constantly look back—not just at the past, but at the proof. We check for messages that have not come yet. We search for footprints that the love is still there. We look to the order we have placed, waiting for our package to arrive. We check if we have our keys, if they’re safely nestled in our bags. We reread old messages to prove to ourselves that the love that ended was once there, shining in full bloom. We visit new places constantly thinking about home.

We leave, but not without a glance behind.

And Orpheus? He turned, just once—enough to prove his love—to check that his heart was still behind him. He turned because the thought of Eurydice hurting herself was too harsh for him to bear.

If I were Orpheus, I would have turned.

Because to love is to turn.

I cannot pinpoint the moment where my words became shameful to me. When did it happen? I’ve always loved to write. I’ve been writing and crafting stories for as long as I can remember.

So why do the bridges I build turn into monsters? When did I turn into my own critic?

It’s somewhat stupid, right? Hating my words when they are my only chance at expressing myself. My only way to show how I feel.

Maybe that’s what I hate? Maybe my feelings are the monsters that dress my words in shame?

But I have nothing else. So why? Why, why, why?

I would scream and pray to have an answer. But I wouldn’t get one.

There’s no explanation why an artist always hates their work. Why do painters agonise themselves over the pieces everyone else loves? Why do musicians play their songs until their arms fall off? And why do writers despise the very core of themselves?

No one has an answer. They act as though they do. They don’t.

And so, I must pretend. Put a mask on and act as though I love the pages I dress in black. I must pretend that I do not see the holes in the gowns of every page I bathe in sentences.

So I close my eyes.