I wish something could've prepared me for the pain of looking into your eyes and seeing a stranger in the place of a the soulmate I once saw.
I’d always thought the most difficult pain was one that was physical. Stab me with a knife but you still won’t shatter my resolve.
But in one instant, with one sentence, I feel myself shatter. Disbelief rolling into shock into burning hot anger.
But as quickly as the anger comes, I find myself breaking, coming apart at the small cracks you just whipped into me. You reach to comfort me and I let you. I let you because it can’t be true. You can’t lie to me and make me out to be a villain when you’re the one cowardly enough to hide.
And that’s how we are--- me curled in a ball and you wrapping me in a hug--- when I finally get the strength to utter two words.
It’s not my apartment. I have no authority here. But something in you understands that you’ve broken something that can’t be fixed.
So you’re gone, slamming the door so hard I swear I hear it splinter or maybe that’s me, still trembling in shock and alone.
Except for him. He’s not like you. He’s honestly nothing like the others. We say we’re friends but something lingers under the surface of his eyes that reminds me we could be more. But it’s his honesty that you will never be able to top.
He’s blunt and crude but at least he’s true. His lies will never hurt me because they do not exist. He doesn’t hold me like you do. He doesn’t comfort me in the slighest.
He’s cold and harsh but his words are pure.
And honestly I prefer it to your comforting lies.
i dont want to hold my breath anymore
Why do we breathe?
If you asked me, I'd probably hide the thoughts away because they're too morbid to say out loud.
But you're not asking and I'm writing.
I think we breathe so that the absence of breathing can hurt all the more. So that our chests can burn in want of more. So that our eyes can tear up before fading into darkness. So that our hearts can pump faster before finally taking a rest from the treadmill of life.
We breathe so that when we don't, we understand it's time. But then, why so I understand so early? Why does my heart continue to beat? Why do my eyes tear up despite the shine that has faded so long ago? Why does my chest tighten in thought of living instead of thought of not?
I suppose then there is no why. There just is.
And so, we breathe.
Breathe till, breath by breath, we don't.
I’m sorry mom.
It’s the first thought that passes through my head as I stare into the mirror. Lifting the scissors to the edge my hair, I cut it lightly. The satisfying little snip of the blades overrides the pounding of my heart in my ears.
Shaking almost, I stare at the tiny broken hair strands that have fallen into my palm. My hair had been my pride for as long as I had known. I had never known myself to even dare to cut it beyond a trim, much less attempt the task myself with the craft scissors I used for petty arts and crafts. Yet, standing in the middle of my tiny twin bathroom, I began to feel a twisted sense of power.
Bolder now, I grab a fistful of my hair and cut through it with the scissors once more. Staring at the mesh of hair in my hand, I let it slip between my fingers.
Thick, black hair falls in clumps onto the white tiles till it looks like thousands of tiny spiders accumulating at my feet. And almost, barely to hold it back, I choke down a sob.
This girl. The one with long, beautiful hair. She feels like a fraud.
She’s too perfect. Too smart. Too elegant. Too poised.
I feel like a fraud.
Because I’m not poised. I’m not elegant. Not smart. Not perfect.
And then I’m hacking through the hair, no thoughts in my head beyond the painful attempts at freeing myself from this forced crown of flawlessness. Because she’s not real. She never has been.
The scissor can barely cut now, too much hair caught in its crevices but I don’t care. I need to stop it. I need it all to stop.
When I finally do stop, it’s because my hand has reached a point of paint from being stuck inside tiny kid scissors and not because I’m anywhere near done. I stare at the angry red lines that remain on my hand from the vigor with which I’ve been cutting. Taking care to avoid my reflection in the mirror, I run my hands in the cold water of the sink.
My face burning, I dare dart my eyes to see the girl in the mirror. It’s barely a second before I force myself to look away because I can’t bear to see the truth. To know that the world can now see what I’ve always known inside.
To be honest, I’m surprised by the shame I feel. I thought embracing the raw honesty of who I am would be liberating, an almost freeing moment. But being here, being forced to see it, it’s almost worse than pretending. There’s no avoiding it now. Because everytime I’ll look in the mirror, it’ll be there.
Sitting on the floor of the bathroom, I’m more than aware of the burning warmth of tears pressing against my skin as they drip onto the tiles, constantly drawing my attention to the discarded hair I so painfully want to forget. And then I see it once more.
My escape. My chance to forget it all. My one true means of peace.
Grasping the scissors in my hand, I find that I’m not longer crying. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself.
Hands no longer shaking, focus anew with a different clarity, I press the blade to my wrist, finally ready to be free.
untitled (idk really)
The girl could never explain why she did it right before getting out of the shower.
Sticking her face right below the showerhead so the water would simultaneously force her to shut her eyes and hold her breath for fear of inhaling the water. It was the weird brief moment of being truly able to feel nothing. It was nothing. And then, the crushing moment where she needed to breathe but the surrounding pressures of falling water allowed for no air. It was in those brief moments that she was reminded of her vulnerability. In the harsh cold of the outside world, she was a power to be reckoned with-- or at least she liked to think so. It was easy to play the part, almost like she was an actor in a movie, simply going through the motions. She was perfect.
But, here, in the privacy of her shower, she was reminded of her humanity. How easy it would be to end it all. How easy it would be to break and show who she really was. How one breath of water would cause her to splutter and face the simple truth of mortality.
The water washed away her walls before suddenly shutting off with the quick twist to the right.
And she was left standing, naked and exposed in the remaining steam, for no one but her to see.
And that, that, was damaging enough.
My heart is a vestigial structure in my body. It beats with no purpose, pumping blood to ensure the survival of a human who has so long forgotten what life is meant to be like. Some claim they love with their hearts, but I do not even live with mine. Instead, it’s just a heavy weight holding me to this world, cursing me with an existence so cruel that even the air doesn’t want to support the vulgarity of my breath.
Yet, my heart beats.
It doesn’t understand the complexity it has caused by allowing my existence. Steady and set on it's goals, the heavy consistency of life is placed on my shoulders. My brain, powered by this loyal rhythm, questions every passing moment. Yet, even my head has managed to stay steady in it's constant pursuit of knowledge.
My body has fallen into the steady rhythm of life that it was so destined and designed perfectly for. It leaves me, then, as the sole flaw in this design. My soul has become the very desecretion of the Universe's miracle. Trapped within the security of these ebony towers, I have learned to live imprisoned to the steady thump of my heart and the constant sparks of my brain. Liberation of the soul is nearly impossible.
Many souls have learned to live within their prisons. I pass by them every day, wondering what it must feel like to never question the freedom of death. Because that's all there really is, isn't there?
And so I live. It's this placated constant between my prison and the simple beauty of disappearing into freedom. My soul remaining in a subdued kind of pain. My brain firing off distractions to keep afloat. And my heart, ever steady, proclaiming the curse of life into eternity.
Eight letters. Three words. The literal manifestation of connection in a sentence.
I love you.
Yet even typing those words makes me want to puke. Because it's so wrong to just write like that.
I used to say it. All the time. To all my friends. To all those I met. Platonic, romantic, or not, I'd profess my love for them all. I didn't mean it inside. It was just a word. Meaningless like the rest of the language I stumble through saying.
But it wasn't till I sat and thought about the power of that word. Wars waged over that word. People died for that word. Some heard it every day and others never even graced by it's presence.
I had started to dilute the meaning of love. Because as much as I try not to be a hopeless romantic, I can't stop myself. I dream of you. Man or a woman, I do not know how you have formed. But you are here. In this world and on this earth. And if I am ever blessed with the fortune of meeting you, I will utter those three magical words again.
But till then, I keep them trapped inside. Unspoken for anyone, even me.
Yesterday, I walked with a dream.
Today, I work towards a goal.
Forever is success.
Love is the gut wrenching pain of knowing that I cannot ever hold you in my embrace again. It's the knowledge that you're gone but I'm still here, heart in searing pain. It's knowing that I cannot move on because there's no one as good as you to be found on this earth. Love has become the simple fact of loving a past memory of us.
Excitedly, she talks of how she can't wait to attend her dream university and stay in love with her long distance boyfriend. And me, sitting quietly on her rug, cross-legged, watching her as she packs. Knowing all to well that her boyfriend has already broken his promises of fidelity. Knowing that I, her sister, have been the sole cause.