#writingnet

The two sword fighters are familiar with their dance. Their tango, their jive. They swing, they perform, they entertain. The crowds fall in love with their twists and faints, they clamour for more - five coins on the one in red and black - you're on.

/

The two sword fighters are tired of their dance. Their tango, their jive. They call out, they cry and curse. They fall, deep and hard into cruel, unforgiving floors. They had fallen in love with their swords, their fighting, but now it was tiresome - do you want to win tonight? - I'll wear the red and black vest then.

/

The two sword fighters are changing their dance. Their tango, their jive. They grow, they add and inflate emotions to evoke gasps and sighs. They rise again, their love that was dulling is re-newing.

/

I feel like I’m being torn apart into thousands of fragments but my soul is still intact and that’s the part that I most want to be ripped apart.

I want to be nowhere and no one but I’m trapped as an identity and in a body and I can’t stand it. I’m certain that bodies weren’t meant to hold this much pain because mine isn’t very good at containing it; every single inch of me is aching and I think the air I breathe in and out probably is too.

the world feels so dark in front of me. there’s nothing left that’s full of light. there’s nothing that I’m looking forward to, although I miss the feeling of being excited. everything exists until it is extinguished, and I think I could be ready for my turn. 

I keep getting told that I’m too young. I’m too young to be so serious, too young to feel so strongly, too young to know what I want, too young to be filled with so much pain, too young to be so full of darkness, too young to want to stop existing so badly. but there’s so much that I’m expected to know for certain, at this young age. who was supposed to teach me?

I am a car crash on the 101, a shipwreck on the Pacific, a forest fire in the Redwoods. but I’m told not to shatter, not to sink, not to burn as I do. 

the ones who broke my spirit are asking why no light remains in my eyes, and I tell them that they poisoned the future. I’m 17 and I want out of this existence, I want out of this body. I want to be free and I don’t want to feel anything.

I had hope before it was wrung out of me like a wet rag. I wonder if the autumn leaves know that they’re dying before they fall, if the changing of their colors feels anything like this ache in my soul. maybe this is what autumn feels like for a summer girl.