#freedomwriters

Being a girl is fighting a battle all her life,

You can’t tame the wild girl, not when her soul is the very fire your veins; why would you want to put out the spark that lit you up to begin with? You can’t tame the wild girl, who’s recklessness lives inside her flesh; you fell in love for everything that she is, so, you can’t tame the wild girl, and you won’t. You see, she will throw daggers of fire into crowds of innocent people, will dance when the music is on low, and God, she will love you fearlessly, and endlessly, if you promise to never let her burn to smoke. She will give you her hands, all blistered and burnt, and will sing you sweet lullabies - will take you back to the time when you were no worries and skinned knees, when the world spoon fed you with broken promises and forevers… She, is the only thing you will know to not be a lie - She, is the wild girl, who will never let you believe in fiction. I know, you were never the type to believe in fairytales, so she will not be the one to write it. Her truth, lies in the fact that she has no secrets, drinks whiskey from the bottle most nights than not, but kisses you, after every shot, so you can taste it. Her passion, will seep from her pores like tomorrow may never come, and you can’t tame the wild girl, not when her scent covers you in purity, like she’s never loved before the day she met you. On some days, you may hate the mess she wakes as, might meet a day where you roll your eyes instead of kiss her, but I promise you, she is the realest thing you’ll have, and the one thing you’ll never get to own - that’s a good thing. Let her roll onto your side of the bed, on the nights you can’t sleep, when she sloppily rests her arm on your stomach, stay. You can’t tame the wild girl, but she will give you poorly constructed pieces that make sense, maybe only to her, but take them, and know it’s enough. Don’t you ever try to change her, Don’t you ever try to tame her. She’ll forever be yours, for as long as you love her, the wild girl.

It took seconds for me to doubt you, pretty smile and deep blue eyes, always a recipe for a wild and dangerous disaster. You see, I’ve loved the type to love me, but have also loved the ones that leave, echoes emptied into my chest like they never sourced from the mouth of a lover. I spread my arms open to reveal canyons in me, miles of empty space left from where lovers glided through, and then eroded away at my core. There are still some avalanches left in me so, be cautious, this love I have isn’t always a steady foothold, and it takes a risk to put up with my difficulty. I hope you find, in the bends of my rivers, a safe place to wash your feet at night. I hope in the cold shadows of my build, you can find the warmth that will guide you through the night. If there is ever a moment where you’d rather not climb, I hope I’m strong enough raise you up to my peaks. You see, I have beautiful views in me, but it takes the ruthless to make the climb. It takes someone to know my trails and paths, to map out the way to my heart, to my soul.

When I was younger, I remember hearing stories of the one who loved more, the one who fought harder, the one who who went through hell to win their lovers love. I remember thinking these stories were heroic, that the hero was the one wearing their heart on their sleeve - but I was wrong. I grew up being this version of a hero, loving all the wrong things for me, watering all these dead flowers in hopes to bring them back to life. You see, no one tells you that giving people the benefit of the doubt is the same thing as being naive. I used to think that wearing my heart on my sleeve would pay off, because those stories I remember when I was little, made it seem like the happily ever after I always dreamed of. Nobody tells you that the hero in those stories isn’t the hero at all. There’s no romanticizing unrequited love, there’s nothing bold about fighting for someone who doesn’t give a shit about you, there’s nothing beautiful about continuously letting yourself down because you don’t know how to give up a fight that cannot be won. I’ve learned this first hand, that the hero is actually the one who knows how to drop the sword when the battle has left you too beaten. That the hero is the one that lets lovers beg for them, knows how to be distant but soft, knows the balance of too much and too little. I only know how to give whole pieces of me, so tell me, what’s so heroic about that? I want to tell you the story of one who loved more, the one who fought harder, the one who went through hell to win their lovers love. So let’s start by saying this: This is not a love story, this is not boy saves girl - there is no hero in this tale, but a very broken soul… One who gives too much, and feels too much, and loses themselves in the battle. Don’t live your life giving away the best pieces of yourself, to the girl who will never love you back the way she should. You are not a hero, you deserve to be the one to save yourself and to love the girl who knows how to love you back just as hard.

If for any reason the city doesn’t want me, would you sit in that parking lot with me again watching planes take off and land, dreaming of the life I just tried on but didn’t like, because the shoes I wore were too big to fit? Will you look me in the eyes and find our love there again, clinging on to the desire of passion in our souls? Will you laugh with me again, hard enough to forget the pain we’ve caused each other, loud enough to mask the screaming doubts in our brains? If I come back bloody and beaten from the coast that neglected my shine, will you bring me back to life with your promise? Will you show me again, what it’s like to be at home? Can you love me hard enough to stay this time around? Help me build a new city around us to guard our newfound love; Let me come back home.