Sometimes paper cuts feel like bullet holes and it isn’t always easy to look past your hindsight. Usually it’s the people you trust the most that carry around salt to pour into your newest wounds. I’m sorry you have to keep looking over your shoulder, ready to run. I hope you can stomach the strength to find your independence.
Unread letters are exciting in the way haunted houses are around Halloween when you’re five and you still believe in all the theatrics, all the blood and guts covering the walls. When you get older you know it’s make-up and you can’t muster it up to scream anymore, so instead you laugh with your head held high. Keep that confidence when you’re holding your tongue, too scared to send the letter, your finger hovering over the send button. The butterflies in your stomach are just theatrics, too.
A lot of people learn to swim when they get thrown into the water, flailing and clutching, and their fight or flight instinct kicks in and it’s the first time they have to learn to save themselves. Pull the thorn out of your side, take the knife out of your back. There’s no superheroes in the real world. You’re the best you’ve got. There’s a wolf howl paired with an ambulance siren in the dead of the night echoing in you. Look danger in the face and laugh.
There’s a common misconception about the people that walk around with barbed wire laced around their heart: That they’re invincible and can’t be scarred. It’s not true. When the electric fence caves in, it’s going to shock that bleeding closed fist to life like a second chance, like a welcome home. A current is going to course through their veins until they’re forced to risk it all again.
I think you were born backwards. You’ll dye your hair a different color every week because you’re never satisfied and you’ll stay up until you pass out, all adrenaline rush meets morphine drip. I’m scared for the day your legs give out beneath you and you fall to the ground, because you never spent the time learning how to crawl; You jumped to your feet and swore you could fly.
Falling stars are meant for making wishes, like throwing pennies into water fountains, like pressing your eyes shut tight at 11:11. Like it’s only for that small moment of time that Fate stops, holds her breath, and listens to you. She forgets about what the stars are screaming to her, what Coincidence insists upon shoving down her throat, what Luck believes in so violently that it shakes him to his core. Fate stops. She listens. For a wisp of time, long enough for you to count your blessings and spew them into the air, fingers crossed that this will be the time she takes a peek into your dream journals and picks the wildest one to make come true. Then Fate exhales, and she carries on, and so do you.
Sometimes your lungs get weak when you see something so beautiful it knocks the wind out of you without laying a finger on you. A sunset over the grand canyon from the hood of a beat up car. A wildflower field in the middle of nowhere, unblemished from our own hands. Weddings and the love is bursting from every pore, every fiber of their being. Newly born animals with all the innocence every God ever imagined could fill into one small body. You, with your grace like an esteemed ballerina, eyes reflecting off waterfalls so even when you’re falling apart, you’re leaking out a purity that will grow into something equally as good.
You brought to life Khaleesi, you Medusa draped in jewelry made of shark teeth. I’m proud of how strong and brave you’ve become but I’m ashamed to see that block of ice where a warm heart should be. I’m sorry the world showed you so much heartache and hurt that you felt like you had to hide that passion in your eyes. Paint your nails the color of raspberries, of sunsets, of cotton candy, of their eyes. Stop biting them down to the skin. Let them grow out. Use them for knives. Remind everyone that you’re so much mythical magic and you’re nursing a dragon back to health.
There’s a vast majority of people who have a fear of heights, especially when it comes to plane rides. Being hundred of feet in the air, soaring through the sky where you can look out the window and make eye contact with birds and clouds. It’s scary to leave your troubles on the ground, somewhere you can’t pretend they’re tangible and over think until you’re blue in the face. It’s even more scary to know you could taste the sky, to know this is the closest you can get to your own set of wings, in a position where you can’t even have control. You’re not afraid of heights or even of falling. You’re afraid of the loss of control.
It’s easy to feel like you’re on top of the world when you’re shutting out the voices and refusing to see past your rose-tinted glasses. I’m sure it must be nice to tune out the feelings and anything that can break through your ribs to tug at your heart strings. Habits are easy to make, harder to break, easier so to pick back up. You’re a pro at getting lost inside hazy bars and waking in up in beds that aren’t your own. The fact that you can’t unhinge your own jaw but want to point fingers at everyone else will be your biggest downfall. We both know you can catch yourself before you shatter, but I’m trying to let you know you don’t have to do it all on your own. There’s a path of neon lights and bottle caps leading you to the chalk outline outside my door.
Logic can get confusing. More often than not, it’s harder to wrap your head around than speaking in riddles. Riddles are interpretations, like body language and did they mean to touch my hand or was that absolutely, without a doubt, intentional? Logic demands reason and rhyme. It demands to make sense but this life never made sense for one damn second and I’ve gotten too accustomed to seething and growing in the chaos. I crave it like ice cream in the summer, like hot chocolate in the winter. I know how to clean up a mess. I know how to make the mess. I don’t know how to speak in a way that makes sense. I don’t know how to think logically about something that’s causing my heart to skip a beat, because the thought of that in itself is illogical.
When I think of you, I think in cliches. Of mermaids luring to death. Something so beautiful and something that was never meant to be tamed, to be domesticated, to be turned into cartoons and children’s stories. Faeries in the forest, and people ripping off their wings and then they’re shunned from their own community. There was never anything here to turn into a child’s play time entertainment. You were meant to be wild. To run. To live. To teach. You were meant to be more. You weren’t made for apologies or for sugar dissolving into water. You were meant to be the bitter aftertaste of blood in their mouth, to serve as a reminder that even the sweetest looking things know how to burn and claw and scratch themselves free.