You will lie in your own sapphire sadness, and pray to a god who doesn’t listen to bring you a boy with evergreen eyes and a smile that gleams. And when he doesn’t, you will settle for a boy with murky brown eyes and a silver tongue. He will whisper hymns of lies that will dance across your mind until he beats them out of you for lingering upon them for too long. He will pick you as his flower and he will continue picking until he has a whole bunch, but promise that you’re his favorite. He will swear fealty to your heart before he runs away with it dragging behind him, and when the storm of his presence passes, and the damage on your body left behind finally heals, you pray once again to a god you don’t believe in, and this time he answers. Yet this time, he sends you a man. Tall as a tree over casting a shadow of protection on those who would do such a delicate flower harm. His eyes a hazel green glow and hands as soft as his heart which yearns to call you his forever. And when you have this man, you will stay the hurricane ridden town you have always been and project destruction instead of taking it. You see a cup can only be filled up so much before it spills out. And god will laugh from the heavens and speak to you in severance “I will hear your prayers and send you what you ask, and when it comes you will not deserve it, and what is not deserved will always find a way out one way or another. As those who didn’t deserve you did. And in love and war there is always one thing that is for certain, an end. In blood and tears, or ash and dust. One way or another.”
You asked me a simple question, but my answer was quite complicated. You asked “Why don’t you love me anymore?” and I thought about it for the first time ever, you see, my heart is a lockbox but I don’t have the key, it’s a room I never take the time to clean and I don’t think it’s that the idea of loving you went away. It just got shoved under the bed. Collecting cobwebs and forming into something that made the burning sensation in my chest go away. Because you started a forest fire in my heart and I thought all the pain was worth it for the heat, but you didn’t stick around to clean up the ashes and I became just another girl you wrecked. And if killing someone was on your bucket list, you can check it off a hundred times because you killed me every time you reminded me there were tons of other girls waiting to be set ablaze. You killed the old me that would have never set herself on fire to keep you warm. But no matter how long I burned I couldn’t get through to your ice cold heart. So why don’t I love you anymore? I’ve forgotten what the word even means, because I’ve called myself a romantic for so long bruised and bloodied filling out my police report of how i seem to keep getting mugged every time you’ve had one too many drinks. It kept people from finding out, I mean starting rumors. So in love with idea of love that I’d settle for any human company that could say the words “I love you.” Even if they didn’t mean it, even if they stuttered, hesitated, called me the wrong name, even when I placed my heart so gently in your hands just to watch you crush it in front of me and give a small smile saying sorry. And if you said sorry it was okay even if it wasn’t true. But I’m sure it was true I say to myself shoving the event under the carpet. I could at least keep some self respect. People look into my dead eyes and ask “Are you okay?” And of course I’ll tell you i’m great, more than great even, but my heart beats to the tune of help me. help me. help me. “But you’ll be all alone” i say to myself. Don’t help me. Don’t help me. Don’t help me. I grew up on a battlefield and everyone had a gun but me, I’m so used to taking bullets from people with shotgun tongues, it’s almost like I’m resistant to feeling. I mean feeling pain. And by resistance I mean shoving all my feelings in my closet and locking it shut. My heart keeps growing bigger and bigger so I have room to support all your tragic back stories and pretend that that makes up for the fact that you’re a fucking asshole. I miss you sometimes, I’ll admit. I think about how your hands tracing my skin were as soft as the lips you kissed me with, but then I remember that your words were as harsh as the taste of another girls lipgloss still resting on your mouth. I can’t think of you for more than a minute without crying and remembering if you keep poking at bruises then they never heal. But I can only despise you so much before it turns back into love. This vicious cycle is a washing machine and I’m getting dizzy from all the spinning. Our love was on and off and on and off again like a light switch. I, a dark empty room waiting for you to walk in and light me up again. I may have meant nothing to you, but you were everything to me. how could I still care about you? You asked me why don’t you love me anymore? and I just stood still, unable to break eye contact with your venomous green eyes. I can’t answer an untrue question. i hate it, but I still love you, but I can’t tell you that. Instead I tell you this. You jumped from me like I was a building that was about to collapse, and I held on hoping for the best. The building crumbled down on me, and I still blame you for all the rubble left in my heart, in my bones, i was the goddamn building. My body is still sore from the impact. You gave that same small smile and walked away. I don’t think you understood, I can’t even understand. And maybe instead of going home and washing away the butterflies in my stomach you gave me with vodka, I might just take some pills and go to bed. But then… I’d be alone again.
Yes this is as crazy as the title would lead you to believe, I genuinely miss feeling awful on a daily basis! I think this is because along with all the tear stains and mental breakdowns, came a writing inspirtation I have yet to reclaim since being “okay.”
Being in a rough patch mentally let me express emotions and feelings I had supressed or been unable to reach. Latley I find my racing mind stuck staring at a blank page unable to even get a single word down. No matter what I read or what events I experience, I am unable to find any inspiration or motivation to get my piece done. I am currently working on a poetry book which will be hardly graded at the end of my term and I have yet to be satisfied with any of my work!
My mother told me when I first began medication for my bipolar disorder that she thought it wasn’t such a good idea. She told me “All writers and geniuses were mad, that’s what made them great.” I had laughed this off at first, but I’m begininning to see that there has to be some truth behind that. Being overemotional about everything always gave me the power to exaggerate my life experiences and pour it into a faction story, but now I am blank. I want to stop taking my meds so I can feel just a taste of my despair again, but I don’t think it would be wise. I’m not happy now, but I’m not sad, I’m just this empty hole devouring my life into nothingness. None of this probably makes sense but I just had to put it out there.
Maybe I should skip breakfast, and lunch, and dinner today…I mean I’m hungry of course, but I can’t see my rib cage as well anymore. I used to think I looked great, I was confident, not too confident but I wasn’t turning my face away from the mirror, I looked myself straight in the eye and I was okay with what stared back at me….until my best friend who I thought was perfect started complaining that she was fat. Then suddenly everything stopped, that’s fat? That’s what fat looks like? Oh god if that’s what fat looks like I’m in trouble. I started to feel myself shrink away, feeling like I wasn’t worthy enough to occupy the space around me. Like the size of my waist was more important than my SAT scores, I became obsessed with society’s idea of perfection. I looked people in the eye to see if they looked at me with as much disappointment as I did looking at myself in the mirror everyday. I could no longer hold eye contact with myself for more than five seconds without turning away and having the grumbling of my stomach drown out the thoughts in my head that told me that skinny is better. That no one would ever love me unless my collarbones stuck out like knives, sharpened to protect myself from those who lie and tell me I look great that day. What do you mean I look great? I ate a banana and if I don’t go to the bathroom and throw it up I think I might die, I look great? My eyes are dead from the countless nights spent staring at other girls on a screen telling me what I needed to look like. And I know if I keep going like this I’ll drive myself to ruin, but dead girls are skinnier.