i’m so sick of writing about my heart as if it’s this beaten up, bloody thing. i’m so sick of it being something i’m ashamed to look at. i’m so sick of throwing it against the pavement, breaking it open for everyone to see, opening up my wounds for entertainment. i’m sick of my pain being an art museum of broken things. i’m sick of the only thing people knowing about me is how much i bleed.
because the truth is this: my heart, it’s still beating. and that’s beautiful, no matter what even my own self tries to tell me. isn’t it amazing how your heart keeps beating through every bruise? isn’t it amazing how no matter how much somebody takes from you, you still have more to give? isn’t it amazing? tell me it isn’t. tell me you think something else means more than the fact that i’m still living. the fact that if you’re reading this, you’re still living too, despite everything.
so no more sad poems. no more opening up old wounds. no more staring contests with the things that broke me. no more dwelling on every crack when i am still a whole, complete person. i’m so sick of giving myself a disclaimer: a “i’m hard to love,” an “i’m crazy,” because the truth is i’ve been hurt, but i’m still pretty kind, and that is truly amazing.
— i’m going to be happy if it kills me