Spellbound

I'm not a poet. I can't twist the words floating around my brain and somehow try to make them pretty. Hell, I don't even know half the words I think. If there were a way I could make my brain split open, trust me, I'd have done that already and showed you the things I've never been able to tell.

Those poets, they always seem to have their way with everything, right? They always seem to know the right words, to turn mud on the ground into something beautiful. Trust me, I've tried. I've written stories about Icarus and have written poems to Athena. It seems easier to do; someone's done it a thousand times before. All I've got to do is take the same old and twist them until they feel right in my head. I've never been able to do that with other stuff though.

I cant look at a sunset and weave it into words that would make a blind man cry. I cant look at a poetic mishap and try to turn it into something that's mine. My words. All my life, I've been pulling words out of other people's mouths. Someone asks me a question? I've heard, and memorized the answer from someone else's words, I don't even know what's 'beautiful' or what's 'ugly'. I just know what I've heard.

The point I'm trying to make is that, last night, when I should have been studying, I came across a poetry prompt. I know, unoriginal. It said, "If you were a flower, what flower would you be?" Simple, really, but then again, I'm not a poet. I let my mind wander a bit, then I knew what I'd write. I didn't know the words, but I knew what to write. It seems as though my brain doesn't want to let go of anything, even if it's just words. So obviously, when I couldn't write, I thought. Then suddenly, I stopped thinking of the 'you' in the prompt as 'I'. Now, I knew.

Forgive me, my words are hardly something you'd want to show someone else. I don't know the names of a lot of flowers. The only ones that came to my mind were the most basic ones. Roses, Orchids, Lilies, and even though I could see traces in those flowers, none could even come close, and I didn't want to look it up. These words should be precious, not something I unknowingly copy off of a webpage. So here it goes, I'll explain. Fiery, delicate, soft, full of patterns on the petals, sweet, spicy, those dots in the sky that light up when it's dark, the way the ocean envelops you in a tight hug, the way water fills up the empty space in your lungs.

The feeling when there's snakes in your stomach, those that make you want to die just so you can live again and fall in love with life even more, the feeling when you're late to something, the taste of pure coffee. I dont know if there's a name of a flower that' like this. I hope not. You dull down the beauty of something by giving it a name.

Those dots above us in the night were special until we started calling them stars. The place I felt most comfortable in really meant something before people started calling it a 'home'. But at times, it's needed too. The way everything started changing and losing it's color was scary until I found out it was called 'time'. Then suddenly, it became as small and insignificant as the name it was known by. What would I know? I'm not a poet.

I think what I'm really trying to say is, there have been other things before and during. And there certainly will be things after. After what? I do not know the words. But it is certain. Another thing is certain: We live, then we die. That's the beauty of it. Nothing we do will ever really make a big enough impact to send ripples across time. We're just specks of dust, floating around, tiny and insignificant.

The words I'm writing may never be seen by another person, and maybe they might. Right now, I'm writing for the pure sake of writing. The words I'm writing have already been written a thousand times over; they've been thought a million times, better than I ever could. See? That's beauty. At least to me, at the time I'm writing this. A year later, I may think these words again and find them unoriginal, fake. I think that may be the ugliness.

I think, and I think I know for sure, but then again, words. Everything's beautiful and everything's ugly. There, a half-baked thought from the corners of my mind. Poetic, maybe. For once, I'd like to be someone's muse. It'd be amusing, I expect, seeing them conjure up words that have no value whatsoever. It'd be pretty, but perhaps a type of pretty I can never understand. Perhaps, to these poets, the rearranging of words means the whole universe.

For all I know, I wouldn't understand the universe even if someone explained it to me like I was an infant. I don't want to know, either. The universe has a pretty-ugliness that I don't want to decipher. A supernova wasn't always a supernova. Some things are better off not understood, while some things deserve to be understood, just not in the form of words. Some things are better left complicated, as it leaves a plethora of possibilities. If onlys, maybes. Anything could be true, and that's the pretty-ugliness of living. Amazing.

If only we could leave everything up to interpretation. Not everything has to be a fact. Let people think we're made out of magic, let people think God's in every single blade of grass, let people assume smoking won't kill. Not everything has to have a word for it. Who are we to limit something with names? We don't even know who we are.

Tell me something interesting.

Um. I’ve never broken a bone

(There are more ants than humans on earth. An octopus has three hearts and more than 90 per cent of the ocean still hasn’t been explored. No humans live on Antarctica. Mount Everest isn’t the tallest mountain in the world. There’s no point to anything, there’s no point, no point, there’s no po-)

I’ve actually broken three

(None of those experiences could come close to how I feel when I’m around you. You consume every thought in my mind, every single strand of sanity I possess. My chest hurts, my lungs ache every time I see you, even think of you. I am so full of you that if I ever died and someone picked apart my heart, all they’d find is you, you, you. My heart is overflowing, up my throat and by my lips. My mouth only forms the shape of how your name sounds. I am yours, in every single way possible)

How so?

(I could never bear to see you hurt. You, who keeps my world turning, who keeps my existence tethered. My breath stops, my throat tightens every time you look at me. I feel sick, too sick to even comprehend what I’m feeling. Is it you? It could never be, could it? I’m just- nothing. Never mind. I’d be the redness swirling ‘round your veins if you’d let me. I want to be consumed thoroughly, until there’s no me and you, no us. Never us. But you’re min-)

Ah, you know, playing with friends. Football, hockey.

(I want to be yours, only yours, always yours. This feeling, it eats me out from within. It claws on my flesh and organs, consuming every part of me that was wholly mine. Now there’s nothing I have that doesn’t scream your name. Not one part, one cell, one organ, can stand knowing I’m not wholly yours and you’ll never be mine. I’m bleeding, my insides pouring out, surrounding every memory of you in a glowing halo of my suffering, my promises. I’d cut open my chest, feed you my heart if you so mentioned you liked the taste. I’d give you everything, just please, please, be mine)

Well that’s unfortunate.

(Love is a chemical reaction. Just a bunch of things going wrong in your brain. It could never happen. You’re me and I shall become you. I’d be everything that’ll go wrong in your life. I can be the very reason you despise yourself each time you wake up. Tell me, how long can a person surrounded by fire continue to love the flames that burn them? I am not capable of loving you, nor shall I ever be. But I’ll play this game. I’ll hold your hand and smile widely, accept flowers and sickening “I love yous”. I’ll watch you scramble around, trying to convince yourself that you like me. ME. Pitiful)

Well, what can I say? (I love you. I love you so much it hurts)

The flowers died on Monday. As did the little lemon plant that you planted in your backyard. The house feels empty, the cat's still searching for you. Sometimes, I think it still sees you in the shadows. I don't blame it, I wish I could, too. Your bracelet is still sitting on top of the dresser, right where you left it. I haven't had the heart to move it, to move something you always carried with you.

The bed feels empty, even though you've never been there to fill it. You're still here, aren't you? You're here in the scent of the perfume you gifted me, even though I don't wear it anymore. You're here, silently glaring at me every time I ignore a message you send. You're here to fill the space, every time I wish I didn't have to talk to you. You're here, in the sound of her laughter. You're here every time she holds my hand. You're here every time we fight over small things. You're here every time I talk to her and wish it was you. You were meant for bigger things, and as much a I wish I could live like you, I can't. I can see through your white lies when you try to soften the blow.

You're quiet, much quieter now. We don't like the same things we used to. We don't have much in common anymore. I wonder why I still waste time talking to you, but then again, who'd do the same for me? I'm selfish. I'm selfish and I'm greedy. I'm jealous. More than I've ever shown. I want everything. I want you to scream at me, I want you to be angry. I want you to not talk to me whenever I ignore your texts for more than a day. I want you to tease me about the stuff I dont want to be teased about and make me so mad I wonder why I'm still friends with you. I want you to make me feel inferior, small, incapable of anything. But I want you to do this in front of me. Slap me, fight with me for all I care but I want to see your uneven teeth and grimace when you're doing it. Tease me, but be there in front of me while you poke my cheek and ask why I'm going red with rage. Push me down, but hold my hand while pulling me back up.

Don't come to me every once in a few years, with a few chocolates and gifts, and try to pretend everything's okay. It isn't. I want to cry to you about my friends, cry to my friends about you. I want to complain about every error in my life, and want you to make things feel better by just being in front of me. I want to do everything I possibly can with you. I want to pick flowers, get hurt by somebody, laugh 'til we're both on the floor with our stomachs hurting. I want to be able to physically touch you, to have you in front of my eyes again, like before, as if it was something normal we did every day, instead of something that hasn't happened in over a year.

I know you're growing older, but for the love of god dont do it without me. Lets get tattoos, get blackout drunk, go to parties, sneak out, all together. Let me hear about your growing pains and hear about mine. Let's sit in silence for hours, not doing anything but having the best time we've ever had. I want to hear about every new friend, every cat that crossed your path that you found cute, every new freckle or pimple, every day in school, everything.

Don't be a stranger. Don't reply to "How was your day?" with a one-word answer. Don't shut me out, even though I can be difficult. I don't want you to go, I really don't, however difficult I might make it for you to stay.

The last time you came here, I had a cold. We pretended everything was fine. I slept over, and between my sniffles, we talked about how everything had changed. We slept in the same room, just a few feet away, but that night, I felt farther to you than ever before, yet I felt the closest to you I'd ever felt, too. You were here for a month, and during that time, it felt like everything would be okay. My parents wouldn't fight, and my brother wouldn't fuss, and I'd be good at my studies, better than before. And it was that way, for a while. See? Even God knew better than to interfere.

During that month, I probably only got to meet you for six days but we tried to make the most of it. I went to your grandparents' house with your family and even though I got tired and overstimulated a lot, at least it was with you.

"Give me another chance, come back and live here again. I won't take you for granted." Was what I thought every other moment when I looked at your face, and your hands, your nails, which had these acrylics that made you feel pretty. I remember I thought about how we used to make fake press-ons out of clay and paper.

At the beginning of this year we need you more than ever, please give us the chance for a better life 🙏

I'm Ola 🥺 I am writing to you today with a heavy heart, in desperate need of your help. I cannot express how unbearable the situation we are living in has become. My family is suffering from the harshness of the biting cold, and we are facing a severe shortage of food and clothing. Every day that passes feels like a lifetime, and each moment makes me feel more helpless and hopeless.

I need you today more than ever. The crazy rise in prices has made us unable to buy food, water and clothes during this harsh winter, So can you help us provide our basic needs? 💔

Imagine if you were in my place—how would you feel? It is incredibly hard to ask for help, and even harder to feel that your voice is not being heard. I implore you, please don’t ignore me. Don’t make me feel that our lives and the lives of my family are not valuable.

I need your support, and I trust that you can provide it. All I am asking for is your support. Every donation, no matter how small, will make a difference in changing the situation we are in. Please help us by donating to our campaign and by reblogging the pinned post on my page. Please don't stop at sharing.🥺🙏

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Please don't ignore our need, don't ignore my ask, Please donate and share with others. 🥺🙏

With heartfelt thanks and appreciation,

Ola

Dear humanity,

Please Help Me – My Son May Die at Any Moment.

"My son is suffering from a severe and life-threatening injury after being shot by Israeli drones. He urgently needs medical treatment outside Gaza.🍉"

I beg you, I kiss your feet, to help my son.

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