The memory of our past drew a thick, sinking line between my backyard and I. It never really came to light, until I was standing in the dark, trying to decide whether or not it was worth crossing to simply retrieve a ball. No, I wasn't scared of the dark. I actually quite loved it. Nighttime was the only part of the day that I felt as if the demons were better at hiding around, instead of inside, my house. I haven't been in that yard in nearly two years, unless I am set on destroying what's in it or myself. I have visited that spot for only two reasons: to pull the vegetables from the garden splayed across the landscape or the to find a way to slowly kill myself. For a while, I believed the garden was a new beginning, something to cover up the old. But as days went by and the garden blossomed, I refused to visit it. It was nearly impossible to see the beauty in something when I knew it rested on top of a tragedy. I am starting to think that maybe all along, I simply wanted something beautiful to grow out of me, out of the tragedy I had become. Instead, I buried my lungs with smoke and tried to blur out the images of the summer I learned to grow up. Now, the only nights that I feel safe outside my own window are the nights that I blow out the smoke that you put into my lungs so many months ago. I'm trying to rid the parts of me that remind me of you. And if it kills me in the process, at least it was smoke in lungs instead of you.
If you think about it, telling stories is the superpower that I never knew I had. I used to paint portraits of my days with the words within my five year old vocabulary. I told of tall tales so often that it became routine. As I grew up, the power of my words appeared to be fading. No one cared about what a scared little girl had to say. Instead of using my words to paint my pictures, I used the silence in between and the colors that no longer lit up my face. I created my own universe from depression and deprivation. Years later when I finally sat down and wrote out the pain, I saw the words grow bigger than they had ever been before. I learned that my words had never been small, only the voice behind them. And my stories had never been forgotten, only failed to have been mentioned. This is where the power of my words lie; in the magic that is created when they are spoken.
He measures my intelligence by the amount of effort I put into running away from my own reality. He sees my writing as a form of art, but I see it as survival. The thing that most people don't understand about me, is that I use literature to heal the brokenness inside of me. At least with false stories of broken hearts, people think I am in love with the stories. But really, I am in love with the heartbreak that looks like mine. I gather these stories and shattered pieces to fill in the gaps of my own life in hopes that my writing will become whole once again. I am not smart. I really just understand the world in a way that shows the brokenness that lies with the beauty. Being smart is my way of staying alive. Without it, I might as well be dead.
Sorry means absolutely nothing when someone breaks your heart. They can apologize, try to turn it all around but it's impossible to fix. In fact, sorry seems almost like an easy way out. It's like saying sorry that the truth came out or that your pain was too inconvenient. It hurts so much to hear those words during the aftermath. For me, it would have been so much easier to have lied the rest of my life with a lie. I may have broken his heart, but there was no need for him to intentionally break mine in return. Knowing that he hurt me in the worst way possible ruins the idea that he was the amazing guy I thought he was. I wanted to move on with my life thinking I had lost something amazing. I never wanted to know that he never thought I was. That hurt worst than the rest. I would rather hear him screaming insults at me than to tell me the truth of what he did. At least with criticism, I knew he cared. But when cheating, I knew he didn't.
Sometimes people lie, to save others. I don't think that is completely alright, but I understand why they do it. Sometimes it isn't even about saving your reputation; sometimes it is simply saving them from the truth because it can hurt. The truth can tear someone apart in an instant, and it can pull the life out of them in just one sentence.
I have never been scared of having feelings for anyone. I have always liked the way it made me feel, all the thrills and excitement that goes along with it. The part that terrified me was how I felt when that person knew the truth. Sure, I drop hints. That never worried me. But actually admitting to them what I felt, paralyzed me. It is so much easier to go through life with your feelings organized into one neat little box, that stayed locked away from everyone else. That's the reason I am terrified to tell you the truth. The truth is that you are a firecracker. Intriguing, loud, and always draws attention. But to me, you are more than that. You are the reason I smile, for absolutely no reason. You are beyond breathtaking, and I mean that even in the morning before you wake up. You are the only person that has allowed me to be myself, and understands even when you truly have no idea what's going on in my head. But when my mind starts sorting through a thousand things and I just go insane, you somehow make me feel like I am still normal. I am so scared to tell you the truth because I am so scared to feel it. This is new to me. It scares me that I can look at you in the middle of a regular conversation and just think, "goddamn she is the most breathtaking thing I have ever seen." It scares me how bad I want you. Saying it to you makes it real, and I am ready for that no matter where it takes me.
There really never seemed to be a problem with me cutting myself apart. It was fine with me. I deserved it. The only thing that made me stop, was a little girl who looked at me for advice. She saw that I did it and thought that she too would be okay. It broke my heart to think that the way I live my life was something that could shape another's. I am fine with burning myself to the ground. But it becomes a problem when the fire that is burning me, catches wind and starts to kindle in someone else's yard. My seemingly small fire is dangerous to anything flammable, and that's exactly what she is. She could burn away in an instant, and it could have started with my flame. Instead, I choose to help put her fire out and grow a garden where the ashes settle. For me, I see potential for something beautiful to grow in place of the her past.
Some days I just feel utterly sad. It's like a crushing weight is on top of me. No particular reason, it just happens. It's not just something that you can wish away in a day. Sometimes it takes a lot time examining of myself to really get to the person I want to be. Some days I am the problem. I can't do anything right. And when I focus on that, I start forgetting everything else in my life. It's like I am trying to do a balancing act, but everyone and everything just keeps pushing me from side to side, thinking that it will somehow help. It seems like some people are more concerned about how they feel, rather than everyone else around. It's just confusing. It's never a straight shot to being better. It's a lot of ups and downs, and it's a hard fight. Sometimes it's just about holding onto the ride until you make it to the end, and you're able look back at everything you went through. At the end of the bumpy ride, it was the ups and down combined that made it such an experience. Without both, you couldn't learn to appreciate the ride.
Everything we read becomes a part of who we are. This is simply undeniable. The more we read, the more we start to put our faith in something that we can't see. Horoscopes tell us how we are supposed to behave and what kind of people to be. Fairytales have a description of the perfect life. Science fiction describes what we have to do to change our world. And realistic fiction tells us how our world is supposed to be. Reading these things may seem silly. To most people, it is. But to the people who believe in it, it's more like hope. People don't just read to do it. They read to feel, to experience, to expand. Our world is far too large for a single person to be touched by everything in it. Instead, books can capture a world and deliver it to a single person by the turn of a page. Every book we read has a piece of a different world. Reading can sometimes offer things that living cannot.
My mom laughs as she compares me to her best friend. She swears we are just alike. We have the same attitude, the same outgoing spirit. She adores that woman, almost too much. She tries to disguise this statement as a compliment, while we both know far too well that it wasn't meant to be one at all. Late at night, when she gets home, I can hear the complaints from the other room. Although she uses her best friend's name, I know that she could replace it with mine all too easily and the complaint would remain true. When I do something wrong or something that she simply doesn't like, she will compare me to her best friend, with a hint of resentment in her tone. Every time, she walks back into the room, only moments later, seeming more composed than before. She laughs it off, as if she never made me feel like I wasn't good enough. Man, that was a good joke. I bet her best friend would have laughed.
Someone told me to write about what scares me. The thing is, I can't decide what to write about. I think the real problem with me lately hasn't been that I am fearless, but that I am scared of myself. If I write it out in words, it becomes official; I am not the person I had planned to be. If I were to write out the things that scared me, you would only see a list with my name written all over it. It scares me that I can look into the mirror and long for the broken person I used to be. Sometimes the pain is a lot easier to take than the pressure of knowing you won't be good enough. It's a lot easier to smoke five cigarettes in a row than to feel the burning hole inside of you from the disappointment of the ones you love. Being too much of anything is scary, but I can't seem to be what's in between.
The closest thing you can feel is when someone is pressed against you, skin on skin, touching every part of you inside and out. As his skin runs across yours, you can feel every ounce of sincerity in his body. Every little move he make causes your body to react in a way that is has never done before. Each experience is different, eye-opening, indescribable. The moment he plunges himself into for the first time will be the moment that changes everything. It will feel as if he has taken away an important part of you, but somehow he has replaced it with something that better suited you. This kind of change allows your body to move with his, in perfect understanding. He will turn you over and move himself along the backside of your curves, in the most sensual way, sending chills up your back. The second that he finds that favorite spot, your body will collapse. A burst of energy will jolt through your body, making you aware of everything he does. The pleasure will gather in one part of your body, making it nearly unbearable. Your body migrates to the edge of the bed, looking for something to hold onto. You will try to scream while your body forces you to gasp for air. You grab the sheets. Your strength is gone, almost like your body has decided to surrender. You give up your fight and take it like a young woman would do. As he slows it down and makes it sweet, you slowly begin to build strength back up.
He said, "I try hard too. I hope you see that," in a way that seemed like it was meant to convince me. He said it in a way that unveiled his complete humility. I see it, I really do. I see it in the way he looks at me, the way he thinks I am the only one around. I see it when I catch him staring when he doesn't think I even notice. I saw it in the way he smiled and told me it would be okay when we both knew I had messed up. I saw it in the way he rolled over and held me because he couldn't stand waking up alone. I even see it when he calls me every night because he knows I don't sleep well without hearing his voice. He tries in the way he listens and cares. The way he criticizes me in order to help me grow. I said, "trust me, I see it."
We all look for kaleidoscope pieces of past loves in the people we fall in love with everyday. We all start out, not choosing who we fall in love with, and somehow we end up being with every person we every really loved. We look at people and examine them, searching for all the bits and pieces that remind us of the kind of loves that set us on fire. We piece together the kind of the person we want to love, and search for someone who fits the part. Every new love is a piece of the last, just reshaped and reformed to better suit the weather and conditions. We create our own love, and also our own misery. Sometimes we look for the pretty pieces, and sometimes we want to hold onto the jagged ones. Each piece explains a different understanding of what love means to us. And when you piece them all together, well, you get the big picture. That's when you realize that all the pieces came from different puzzles, yet fit together perfectly.