inside my head

A girl is curled up in a blanket, with your pet cat. She is reading by the window. Soft music plays, and there is sunlight. She watches as the days go by, popping in to point out beautiful things. Her eyes twinkle, and an unrestrained smile fills her small soft face.

A women is wearing sensible heels. Her makeup is flawless. She carries a portfolio and smiles confidently. She insists on button downs and skirts. She checks in to see that I am taking care of myself. A mental checklist runs in the back of my head.

A teenager dances in a theatre. it is strewn with different discplines and she tries them all, singing softly to herself. She dreams for me, talking of all we might do, reminding me of what I have done.

There is an old woman, she is baking, and grinning gentley. She is reminding me to clean the messes I leave behind. She is listing gratittudes and reminiscing of the past. When I cry, she tells me it’ll be okay. She reminds me of the joy in companionship, and sharing.

There is a tiny, terrified child. She is hiding, deeper than I can dive within myself. She cries. She whispers. Her eyes are shut, and her head is covered. Desparately lonely, yet infinitely paralyzed by fear and confusion. Everything seems contradictory. Every action feels wrong. Every thought condemnable. She silently cries. She makes me feel things I know are not true. She is the shakiness in my voice and body. She holds my eyes to the ground, and bends my shoulders forward. She is a constant stream of everything I’ve done and why it was wrong. The neverending doubt at the back of my mind.

She cries for me, so that I can walk forward and try to smile.

She senses how others are feeling, she tells me their secrets. Translating moments into emotional rollercoasters.

She is scared of cars, and talking to strangers.

She is scared of pain, and hurting others.

She does not trust anyone, not even herself. Everything is uncertainty. Except that she is wrong. She is always wrong.

And everyone knows that. Everyone will leave her.

Her voice is soft, and constant, like tiny cuts that never heal. stinging with every movement. Cuts all over her body. All over her heart. My heart.

What is love?

She asks me for answers I cannot give. She asks me to end it. She asks me to hide. She screams ever so softly that we are aching. That I am broken.

So I send them to find her. My voices sitting by her in the dark. They stay, so that she can feel. So, that I can feel things that I can’t feel right now.

“It’s okay,”

“I love you,”

“I’m here,”

“It’s going to be okay,”

“They didn’t mean it,”

“You are going to be okay,”

“I am going to be okay,”

And the voices which are all my own, all cry together in my voice, they comfort in my voice, they hope, are scared, and ache together. They heal together.

It hurts too much sometimes, but this is how I cope.