Like I’m Five Again

I walk underneath your shadow

no matter where I walk it's under your shadow. right beneath yours, intertwined. I don't know whether to be grateful or not. whether or not it's something I need. but on days where I need your shadow to keep me away from the sun, you walk a little farther, never there when I need it most. these days it seems that through distance, as you walk each step a little faster and farther, I can no longer feel your warmth. and your shadow has been making me feel colder. so maybe it's time to just stop moving and let your shadow walk alone. because I think I'm ready for this shadow to finally be my own.

I had assumed

My bad— I had assumed we were closer than I thought we were. nights holding hands as the cold air crisped our noses, tears running down my face, arms intertwined, and your jacket on my shoulders.

I’m sorry— I had assumed we were close. nights crying on the phone until the sun rose to remind us to go back to bed. nights on the bench crying until 3am because he dumped you for another athlete.

I fear— I’ve assumed we were close. days sitting on the grass unveiling our fears that we’ve never told anyone else. laughing until we told ourselves it’s not worth it to k-ll ourselves right now.

I didn’t know— we weren’t as close as you said we were. And I’m sorry, I didn’t catch myself sooner.

I wish I was loved

I wish I was loved, unconditionally. through days when my energy sucks up a room with my blank eyes. through moments when I’m too scared to speak up for myself. through times when I want to speak my mind and instead keep quiet because I’m scared of being alone. through thoughts of wanting to run falling off a cliff when I can’t take it anymore. through my soft voice screaming to be heard when the winds push me off my feet.

I want to— love myself unconditionally. through days where i want to give up and yell at myself to do better, be better. I wish, I loved, unconditionally.

“You should write a novel about your life”

“You should write a novel about your life”, something she’d often hear. Yeah sure, her life was— peculiar to say the least and I guess it’s a life worth the write but it definitely wasn’t something anyone actually wanted to hear. Especially on the precipice of their roaring twenties. Who has a life that bad before their twenties that it’s worth writing about? She didn’t wanna hear that, feel it, especially when she wanted to make something out of herself first. Or maybe too often it was the idea of having to make something out of herself that had burdened her. The struggle, it had to have been worth it of course if she.. made something out of herself. Right?

You turn 18 and you can vote, so you celebrate turning 18. You turn 19, okay no one actually celebrates that, you’re just 19. You turn 20 and damn you’re 20, you’re just a twenty-teen! You turn 21 and you celebrate being able to finally buy alcohol on your own and walk into bars like you’re the shit. You turn 22 and you celebrate .. what do you celebrate? Oh yeah, your Bachelor’s Degree. What about so on and so on? Is it twenty-teen until she’s thirty-teen? She’ll keep celebrating until it constantly feels like she's on the precipice of something great? And nothing actually ever fucking happens?

But she thought too, what happened to normalcy? The struggle to just be.. perfectly normal. Be alright. What about that? The movies had warped her idea that with struggle came greatness, but what if greatness was just— no longer being in that dark place and living a completely normal life? And with a sigh, she dropped her pen and began to wonder when she’d ever actually start writing.

Everyday

Today my mom asked me why I haven’t eaten all day. This cycle goes on everyday.

Today my dad asked me why I didn’t want to eat all day. This question gets asked everyday.

Today my sister knocked on my door, dragged me out of bed, and asked me why I haven’t moved all day. This happens everyday.

Maybe I’m broken. No, I know the choices I made have been decided.

Maybe I’m frozen. No, I know the world is still moving on without me.

I don’t eat because I want to be pretty. The answer is simple really— I sit in my room staring at my wall because I simply don’t want to exist anymore. And some part of me hopes that one less meal means one less day of my life. I linger for just one day where I don't feel terrible anymore.

I don’t move because I don’t want to get hurt, I don’t say anything because I’m afraid of being a bother. I see the way people ignore my eyes, see my smile and think, "oh they’re fine." I hear the way people are afraid to ask how I’m doing. I hear the way they fumble their words of reassurance. I can see their schedules filled with plans that don’t include me. Or maybe— it's all in my head again & people don't hate me, I do.

So here I sit, staring at the wall, hoping that maybe tomorrow isn’t like everyday.

I woke up today

I woke up today hoping it’d be much better, but the war in my head brought me back down. The rain poured down and my heart started to ache. I picked up a pen and wrote until I cried myself to sleep.

My eyes grow weary of the salt that burn them every night, of the thoughts that are branded into the depths of my brain, of how unworthy I am of just being.

I dreamt of drifting away until I could no longer feel my feet, until my thoughts were filled with raindrops that cleaned away the ash.

I had hoped again, today would be different. and maybe tomorrow my hopes will come true.

A thank you letter to my sisters

Today you knocked on my door, and dragged me out of bed. You placed my cat in my arms, hoping I’d feel comfort instead of dread. It helped, for awhile, until you made me breakfast and coffee past noon. I yawned and cried, and you held my hand as I sobbed.

I gave you knives, scissors, & tweezers to place away for awhile. Telling you I can’t see them or I’ll harm myself & be hostile.

We’ve have our moments, and for them I am sorry. But I know if I fall I’ll always have my sister to catch me & carry.

Sisterhood is sacred, honest, & true. And forever may I be grateful of being blessed by you.

When I fainted, you placed me in bath water, & picked up my frail body off the floor. Heartbroken that the path towards healing was one that would feel evermore.

I remember when we were little and you would cover my ears with headphones, the vinyls playing loudly to fade out the screaming outside our doors. Playing games with me in the middle of the night while our parents roamed the streets looking for our missing brother. When I would get nightmares and you would share your half of the bed. When we had a fridge more than half empty and you would half a raw ramen and we would bite into them as they tasted like lead. When we would hide in the closet as they screamed at us to behave or they’d knock us out dead. When you reminded me to hold my pride as men would prey on me, praying we’d seek our revenge. When you handed me my favorite trinket as the ambulance took me away, holding my hand, & telling me I’ll be okay.

Many times have I failed finding sisterhood in others— and never does it touch the same. The lack of compassion is jarring, nothing can compare, or even aim.

There are too many who do not understand, the beauty of sisterhood & the chaos in its wonderland.

For my sisters I am grateful. Forever & ever.

May I try to live another day, just for my sisters.

those were my friends first

I know I shouldn’t be jealous, or even think this way— but those were my friends first. I showed you my world, my closed rooms, and people that loved me for me.

and now, I’m walking alone behind you dragging my weight on the sidewalk as you hold their hand right in front of me.

I should probably blame myself though, for wanting you just for me. But I thought we would stick together, butter & glue. and I thought you wouldn’t leave me behind.

As I pull myself away— I linger for you, waiting for you to knock on my door. Hearing me cry against the wall, tears staining the carpet.

But this time I’m not fooling anyone, and there’s no one waiting. There’s no one on the other side of the door. You’ve left. Because you’re tired. And I don’t blame you.

So instead you’re with my friends— the last people I talked to before I buried myself into a cold cave. and as always, I’ll blame myself.

I wish I lit up the rooms I walked into,

I wish I lit up the rooms I walked into, but instead it feels as if I walk with a great cloud daunting over me. And every room instead fills with water, people feeling the weight of the cold on their ankles, feeling the crisp rain pouring on their skin, hair wet, & palms sweat with nerves. So they leave, because why stay near someone who makes a room so somber?

I have a soft voice, softer than petals falling in the wind. A voice that gets even dimmer when I feel like my last spark has been washed out by the rain, and silence reins in. I have a laugh that often gets called undesirable and unattractive. So I laugh quietly under my breath. I have big black eyes that stay puffy from the salty tears that hung them open the night prior. I have soft freckles under eye bags that are often forgotten, brown eyes and brown hair that are easily mistaken for any other softly green under-toned tanned girl. I have hair long enough to cover elbows that often get called terrifying by outsiders. I have bones that show through the seams of my dresses. I have wrists that often get measured by the fingertips of strangers.

I wish my voice was like thunder, striking a room like lightning. Unforgettable, strong, and beautiful. I wish my laugh was sweet like the summer, honest, acidic, tasteful, addicting and loud. I wish I had the courage to repeat myself when I haven’t been heard instead of shutting down. I wish I wouldn’t get mistaken for any other girl. I wish my eyes weren’t burnt from all the salt that they’ve cried. I wish my arms weren’t so tiny. I wish I stopped comparing myself to everyone.

But overall. I wish I was kinder to myself, and then maybe— just maybe, I’d be able to light up the room in which I’m the only one in it.

I wonder if you know

I wonder if you know which song is about you, which letter is written for you, which smile comes from you, which gift under the millions were from me.

Wait no— you don’t actually pay attention. Because last time I asked how you liked the gift I sent you, you forgot it was from me. So, I stopped asking.

So, I stopped texting, stopped calling. and there was silence without your laughter. Laughs that weren't meant for me.