she who writes

is that too much to ask?

she is beautiful. so perfect, so stunning, it almost hurts to gaze upon and admire her beauty. although, I am not certain I become lost within those huge hazel eyes, transfixed by those perfectly placed freckles aligned delicately along the bridge of her nose; like stars in the galaxy, or stunned by her face and figure, as though it had been carved and chiseled meticulously by the ancient greeks as they strive to create absolute perfection, simply in a state of pure admiration. no. you see, when I look at her, jealousy and envy course through the blood in my veins like poison; eating me up inside. it is almost as though while in her presence, I feel completely unworthy; unworthy of talking to her, looking at her, or even breathing the same air that fills her lungs as she inhales, accentuating her breast as she does so. my body begins to feel hot. I become flushed and so my breath become short, and static. I am embarrassed. I am embarrassed that people have to go from looking at her, to then looking at me. what an unfortunate transition they must make, and how unfortunate is it that I am the one who makes it so… the poison then quickly makes its way to my brain. it seeps into each forgotten corner and crevice of my mind it can possible reach, until it has completely taken over. as it permeates deeper, and deeper, the poison starts to affects my vision, as now I am certain that what I see in the mirror, is not beautiful. while it may have been before, that thought is now far from resurrection… as the toxin courses through my blood and races through my body, with such fury and vigour, its speed ever quickening as it spreads and spreads and spreads until… until, it reaches my heart. then I am gone. I can not be her. I can not match her, nevermind beat her. she is above all of that. she is the envied; she knows it. pursing her lips, squinting her eyes ever so slightly. she knows how others look at her; how I look at her. but perhaps she is oblivious to how deep such envy flows through my veins, tormenting me, every day. and while I know I should simply be happy for her, it just seems impossible. for who can be happy living life in anothers shadow; being out shined by their beauty, while desperately searching for your own.

I stopped writing rather abruptly, as my friend had arrived. They gave me a hug (I needed it) and asked me how I was. I ended up having a good day. 

Hello there, love. First of all, I am deeply, deeply, sorry for what you have experienced. I simply cannot imagine what you must have gone through, and am devastated it happened to you at such a young age. However, upon your request for some help with your poetry... I simply don’t know if I can do it. Now this has nothing to do with you, but me. I don’t think that I am an experienced enough writer to help capture your experience, while still ensuring it is personal to you. I find it difficult to relate to your experience and so I fear I will write something completely different from the truth! With that being said, I am more than happy to give you some stylistic tips you could incorporate should you choose to write a poem anyway! Please, don’t hesitate to message me! I wish you all the best x

I sit in the small, beige room once more. taking notice of the same plant on her cluttered desk; brown, dying, showing all the signs of needing help… she picks up her note pad, adjacent to the sad little succulent, picks her pen out of her pocket, fixes her hair (which I notice is beginning to thin; stress?)  and we begin. she has already started taking notes- on my appearance, I presume. perhaps the way I am dressed, or the way I am sitting, am I making good eye contact? so, she begins, how have we been doing this week? we? I find it funny how in this, “we”, I feel so painfully alone… okay, I reply, I had good days and bad days. she puts pen to paper, and I watch as her pen records the words that escape my lips. her ink laps up my secrets like a dog does water on a hot day. she has painted the page with my sorrows, seeming to neglect adding the stories I mention with bright eyes, smiling. she only reacts to my unhappiness. but still, I envy her; I envy her as she writes about me in her little book. I start thinking of my journal, tracing my fingers over its leathery skin, flicking through its beautifully imperfect pages- keeping my secrets safe. I wonder if they feel betrayed, that I have been the one who has exposed them- that I have allowed another to put their own pen to paper as I cry, when it should be me. but I hope they can forgive me. I hope they can understand. I hope they realise that hiding my unhappiness between pages in a journal beneath my bed, is not what my mind needed. And so she continues to write, and I continue to weep, but I shall never forget about my little black book of secrets that hides beneath my bed- my first form of therapy.

at what point do I start being me?

“read 2 days ago”

people get caught up in the numerical value of almost everything they have. money, grades, friends… you name it. people are judged on how they look; rated, if you will. scoring a 10 means you're good enough. but if you don't? you're on dangerous ground. we live in a materialistic world. shopping in high end stores automatically makes you, better, than everybody else. why? because it shows how much money you have and can therefore pay, for empty happiness and validation. people are controlled by social media. how many followers you have, how many likes you get, how many comments you receive, all determines your worth as a person. constantly checking and rechecking your notifications to watch the numbers go up. and if they don’t? the post is deleted. because the lack of likes and comments, or retweets and reblogs, simply means it was not good enough. and we submit to what is impressed upon us. because in order to be beautiful as a woman, your dress size would not exceed a 4. we feel like we must record the number of calories in what we eat. and count the number of pounds on the scale. we are forever basing our worth on and validating ourselves with... numbers. counting on that feel good feeling we receive when we get 100 likes on a picture, drop 3 pounds on the scale, or buy that $300 belt. counting on that feeling of, “finally… I am good enough”.

not yet, can the world see the hands of mine that inflict so much damage. nor the eyes of mine that weep so many tears. not yet, can the world see the lips of mine that tremble in the early hours of the morning. nor the arms of mine that have stifled so many cries. not yet are they ready. not yet am I ready. not yet. not yet.

thank you x

Sure! I’m still fairly new to tumblr also, but I use it as a platform where I can post my writing... but you can post anything you like! Look up hashtags to get some inspiration and follow some blogs to see what people are up to x happy tumblr-ing! (and thank you for your positivity ❤️)

~ a sunflower does not concern themselves, with tales from a weed.

if I have a bad day, I must be PMS-ing. when I’m on my period, I’m seen as disgusting. If I wear makeup, I’m seen as fake. when I don't wear any, I’m told I should. I am told to love my body, yet am given “tips and tricks” on how to change it by losing weight. my bushy eyebrows prove that I am untidy, and my teenage skin implies that I am not beautiful. as a girl, I can never win. there is always something I have to do, I have to be, I have to say. I can never be content with my natural self. why? because as a girl, society has influenced me not to be.

my mind and I should never be left alone together. she always uncovers the moments I have tried to make her forget. surely she knows, no good can come of thinking about the good old days, while wallowing in the bad.

and to think, I am ruining my mental health, simply to receive a letter on a page on results day morning, that supposedly determines my overall intelligence, capability and therefore, my future.

~we are just friends… nothing more, nothing less.

why? why, whenever I put pen to paper, he is the only one who seems to let the ink flow? my mind, blank… but still he creeps out of my memories. so I sit back and watch, as words of pain, and hurt, wander over the page. they look sharp, and serrated- embodying my anger, and my frustration. my grip tightens and my brow furrows. my pace quickens and my pen bleeds, as things once embedded deep in the forgotten corner of my mind, make themselves known, through smudged ink and scored pages. the proof, of a deeper hurt, that can only be uncovered in a dark room, pen in hand, and one question in mind; why?