once you’re genuinely happy, be sure to remember the sad parts. you won’t fully understand how free you are unless you remember them. you managed to detach yourself from them, be very proud. don’t dwell on the sad times too much, though. love yourself. love yourself so much; you’ve done so well.
I wonder if it all shows. I wonder if the people I exchange nervous glances with see that lonely look in my eyes. I wonder if strangers feel my bitterness when they brush past me. I wonder if this has gotten to a point where my emotions spill out into my appearance.
I’ll remember the shitty coffee from service stations with lights that gave me headaches at midnight. I’ll remember bending so much that I had bent right back around to the start - no breakage here though. I’ll remember asking the walls of my bedroom ‘what is wrong with me?’ repeatedly on bad nights. I’ll remember the heavy boots I pair with every possible outfit. I’ll remember that I’m more interesting than 'beautiful’. I’ll remember forever comparing myself to my best friend. I’ll remember the exact shade of purple that my room is; I’ve stared at the walls lifelessly too many times. I’ll remember awkward heart-to-hearts with my father. I’ll remember how different types of lighting make my confidence grow or fall. I’ll remember hating a lot of parts of me. I’ll remember hearing my brother punch his wardrobe, angry at so many situations. I’ll remember disappointing my teachers. I’ll remember my mother telling me how proud she is of me. I’ll remember things that make my eyes light up and things that make my chest hurt. I don’t like remembering that this will all be gone soon.
I will never be as bright as the sparks that fly off my lighter, a miniature firework show. I can’t ever be as beautiful as I’m expected to be; the body I am in has become unappealing and worn out, showing my emotions too obviously. I’m a mix and match of bad things that nobody should have to deal with. I am worry and tears. I’m a story so poor, you wanna burn the book.
I’m lonely but I can’t manage eye contact or conversation without feeling my heart hammering itself against my chest. I want to act even more selfishly than I already do. I want to spend some time out of this body. I want to tuck my body into bed and give myself soup, as if that would solve everything and I could sleep at normal times and be a stable, worthy person. I want to take care of myself as I would a loved one. But I just don’t feel right or up for life - no matter where I go. I have a guilty feeling in my chest over everything. I feel like my hands place themselves over my mouth whenever I want to speak up. My mind feels so cramped most of the time. I can’t find the appropriate words. I wish I could cope more easily than I am at the moment. I would take my own life if it didn’t mean that I would be taking my parents’ lives with me. Everything is so upsetting to me and I often cry just because I’m sitting here, simply being, and not understanding whatever is happening to me.
I am an unread letter, thrown into the flame. I am “Oh, just one more cigarette!” or “I’ll try tomorrow”. I am a struggle with legs, a mind stuck in a bubble. I am so closed that I’m turning inside-out. I am words that are caught on the twigs of the ever-growing tree of complications inside my head. I am a plug surrounded by the wrong sockets.
But I can be the sun pushing through blankets of clouds. I can create myself, be a masterpiece. I can be the hopeful flower growing from the rainforest floor - I can catch that thin line of light and hold onto it, absorb it. I can grow and learn to love. This bitterness will soon fade, but I will work it away. I will be my own spoon full of sugar. For the first time, I will be.
are the street lights where you are different from the ones here? do they replace my company well enough on your midnight walks home? i would ask if you miss me, but i don’t think you do and i don’t blame you. i don’t miss me either. i may not have you around anymore and i definitely don’t have myself, but i have the daises and the city and the sweet smell of fresh toast on monday mornings. you may have been a lot, but you weren’t home to me, thank fuck.
and so i knew it was all going to be fine and i would be okay because i would find a new, better version of myself - me - (imoffsoon)
this heart flutter is my reminder that i’m here and i’m anxious for reasons that are and will be unknown to me. now, i hardly ever get ill, but i find myself hoping for a cold so i could have an excuse to sleep this whole thing away. my life is a race and i want to sit this one out. i’m a sunflower left in the shade. i plan to stop existing before my gums are unable to hold onto my teeth. most of the time, i feel like i’m at death’s door, buying time by fumbling for the right key.