Okay, heart. I get it, you’re upset. You’re mad at me, and mad at the human beings I have introduced you too. But can you calm down for just a moment? Some of them actually care about you, and maybe you’re just hurting me because it’s you that’s messed up and not them.
I understand if people have hurt you and that it’s made you build a cage out of your own bones for your own self. But you can’t keep telling me that you wish someone would honestly love you if you don’t unfold the bones around your heart just a little bit to let them in. And if you won’t let me in, how can I honestly love you if I honestly don’t know you? I can be a monster, I’ve built my own cage out of my own bones for that reason, but I promise, I never ate a heart before. If you want honesty, you’ll gain no one by being cold, and hidden behind your marrow. But I can wait. I’ve always been waiting.
And a smaller piece at that, if I were to surgically remove myself, and replace the rotting decay that I am with some sunshine, I’m sure you would feel much better. Because without me, you would not get sick anymore. Every bad little thing would vanish, if I kiss your body goodbye, and go away. I should go away.
Is it possible to feel like dying—yes to really feel like dying, to express all the blackest parts of yourself that you cannot explain with words through tears, to perhaps even plan it out in your head, over and over with various methods until you fall asleep? Because that’s the only thing that will put you to sleep—while somehow holding onto a good feeling. What is that feeling? Somehow you’re smiling and it’s not forced. Somehow while your left side feels heavy, your right side feels light. While your mind is troubled, your heart is flying and while your heart is breaking, your mind is dreaming. And then you think to throw yourself off of something, to fall to what would destroy you, only to follow that thought with, “but what if I could fly after I jumped?” And is it possible to feel like everything simply sucks but to somehow not feel as if you’re lying when you tell someone, “I’m okay.” I feel like I’m two different people. A paper doll caught between a blade, sliced in half as I float either way. I’m okay, but I’m also not. I breathe as I die inside, and as I choke on my inner workings, I also drink up the sunlight and think to fly.
I guess though, a lot of people are like this.
I always tell you to create something out of nothing. I always tell you that if you’re angry, write with your fury, form words from red hot fits of rage, form stories even if you kill something within them. I always tell you that if you’re crying, freeze your tears and create a world from them, crystalize the sadness and make it become an outlet for your sorrow, use your pain to master your craft. I always tell you that when you want to write but can’t, to simply write about anything; how you’re feeling, how you love her, how your eyes appeared when you gazed at the sky. I always said that if you’re restless and uninspired than write about how you’re restless and uninspired. Are you happy, would you describe your smile to me with words? Are you angry, would you lash out at me with sharp pointed words like animal fangs? Are you sad, would you pour your tears into me in the form if your fingertips creating something terrible? Are you tired, would you then close your eyes and tell me about your dreams? Are you bored, would you then play with me, words are our toys and our minds are the playground. I know now that I never take my advice. I spend my time hoping to make you stronger, only to know that I am just weakness, just empty books, drained of ink, eyes go from brown to grey, to black pits, to a soul eaten alive by what it could not create, a monster born of the restless, uninspired heartache. But did you know, little bird with those little wings, did you know that as you fly, I become the wind, and I go with you. Did you know that as the wind, you are my stength? You might think that as the wind I carry you, but in truth, the higher you fly, the more I live, breathe, and survive. It is your words that fuel me, your words that kindly take the monster by the hand, strokes its fur even when it bites you and leads it to the cage. And it’s you who crawls inside the monsters mouth and pulls me out everytime. It’s you who opens the books and puts ink back on the pages, it’s you who with your craft helps me define and master mine.
Kind of sucks when you feel desperate and like you’re sinking so you talk to two people who you trust more than most people and they both have different viewpoints on the subject. I know it’s essentially something that I must unravel on my own but truthfully, it is exceptionally confounding to have the opposite opinions dangled in front of your face when you were already so torn up about the issue. I mean isn’t that why you talked to those people in the first place? It’s clearly not their fault and just because their words differed doesn’t exactly mean that they’re wrong but then that begs to inquire, is one of them right? Because there is no third party. It is one direction or the other, it is fly or fall, dance or walk, dream or nightmare. There is no strawberry to blend with the vanilla or chocolate, no neapolitan escape. But as ever I may just be over analyzing a terribly simple situation. But to some it’s nothing, to others it simply sucks and to me, to me it holds onto my heart like the teeth of the most blood thirsty beast.
A nonsensical tale of two girls.
And you knew this life was endless
Yet you couldn’t hold onto it
You knew that he would have given it all for you
But you stared into my eyes and you kissed my mouth
Took out my soul with your tongue and teeth
Told me, “Not a man, but you.”
To love me was to die
Because they killed you with their persecuting eyes
It was only with you that I stepped out of my stone shell
So I felt nothing when the daggers came
Leather bound with golden edges
But you were afraid
I wasn’t strong
He wanted your life
Ending something endless
He took you away
Nailed your lips shut and trapped my soul inside
Made me stone forever, forever
Only you could make me bleed
And while you died to love me
I crawled back into ice and kissed your shell
Watched you tremble all the way into your grave
You said, “Not a man, but you.”
And I said, “You can’t handle this.”
Leather bound with golden edges
The daggers came and I felt nothing
To watch him nail your lips shut and trap my soul inside
I kissed your shell goodbye
You married fear and I slept with emptiness
Our love was to die
You were afraid and I wasn’t strong.
Someone is always saying “I am not that person”
You’re not good—I’m not good—they’re not good.
Then I suppose we ought to shut up and stop saying it then.
Oh indeed, you’re so terrible and I hate you.
You were the roses within me, or perhaps no, something more vibrant and brilliant than that. You were a mass wildflowers springing up out of the redness of my blood and you had clung to my inner workings, you made me feel colorful and alive. But then in one moment, as I blinked my brown eyes like on any other day, you weren’t there anymore and I was left empty. There is no other way to live and so I stay empty. There isn’t anything left to grow inside me. If you cut me open, not even ash nor thorns would fall out. I am merely a shell, I think I’ve said that before. But even the shell is cracking now and once it breaks, I wonder if I will disappear. Don’t think that I am a mere doll though, for even a doll as limbs to move with. I am searching, and holding onto the cracks and hoping that I can hold the shell together long enough to find the meaning of the emptiness, to wonder if I could fill myself with myself, to no longer need wildflowers, but to learn how to grow my own blood again and to know that even if it’s just red that I had my own color. My own pretty little roses.
