It seems endless, this pit, I fall into it every now and then, and to be honest, I am sick with it, sick, of, it.

Me, it, her, them, us...


I don't want to be me, it's exhausting. My body feels swollen with, life, with self, and I'm so  tired. I have too many feelings, too many people, too many voices, screaming. 

 

My skin feels tight with the hands of yesterday and I try so desperately to find a crack in the shell, a space of light, a way, out. The truth is, there's no way out, it's only in, always, and endlessly, in.

I search for the eyes to see another me, because the one I am is so many, and the many make trouble for the one I know I can be. I am tired. I'm so, so, so, so tired. I can't remember a time I didn't have this tiredness, like shackles around my ankles, preventing my taking big steps.

 

Tears that have been making their way to the surface for what feels like forever, fighting for the strength to roll down my cheeks, but bored by the idea of feeling sad, again.

 

I want to scream, because I want. I want to not want.

The gift of being understood must truly be a gift. The beauty of being seen wholly and without the turned-up eyebrows of question, must indeed, be beautiful.

I am tired of explaining, over, and over, and over and over again, who, what, why I am.... So disgusting underneath this shiny shell.

I am tired of holding my own hand, and sick with understanding, everything. Only to be surrounded by the blind arrogance and blessings, of the loved, of the rest of the world.

Every heart that would, could understand let go and is gone. Friends bound only by the hands of being discarded, bound, by the hands of understanding we are, forgotten. I am not bound by blood, but bound, wholly...

My greatest burden is at times, having survived.

 

I am tired...

Blood covered purples, greens and yellows, broken moments, parts, fall dead. 

Wings clipped before they felt their first breadth.

Most days my heart drowns in the knowing that no matter how much I have cleaned out, I will never, be clean enough. Not for them, not for the others.

The bricks laying the foundation of my hallways lead to rainbows of a little girl I can't give away, a little girl that lives in a grown up shell and hurts, all the time.

Without my consent.

 I am.
Broken.
When?

All I want Is to be beautiful.

After you ask me...

Where are you from?

I want to be seen, and stay, beautiful. I don't want you to fall silent, fill in gaps with a story that's no longer mine, and twist me into damage, failure, and filth. Your lips will turn up slightly at the corners and I am no longer a possibility of wonder and color. 

 

I am no more, and she, becomes her. Contagious, and a thing, to be wary of.

In surviving life I have become unbelievable, unlovable, unacceptable, and impossible.  Too much to understand so, better left unsaid, better to make me into something you can understand. Something you can visit.

Trust.

Leaves.

The idea that perhaps, I am simply, not you, is simply, too simple.

Trust.

Lost.

Just listen, and love. But whom? And how? Her?

 Because.

 How could she really be?

Happy, loving, beautiful.


Loving herself. Forgiving them. Breathing, again...

Leave me alone.

I promise.

I won't burden you with me, if you don't burden me, with your ideas of who you think I must be.

Sea,

I'm just like you, only, more interesting.

Understand yourself.

Ask yourself.

Them...

Those of us with dirty, empty hands need you, to see us, here,  now.
Those of you with clean hands need to see, the dirt, you were blessed to miss.

Those of you with clean slates, hiding behind your ideas of reckoning, are failing.

Abandon your fear of not understanding and love, love, love...

It can, and will, heal, everything. 

Even, perfect, you.

Under the noise, this damage, holds more love than you can possibly imagine. You cannot truly taste a bounty until you have been starving, starving, starving. 

 

The bricks laying the foundation of my hallways lead to rainbows of a little girl I can't give away. 

A little girl that lives in a grown up shell, and hurts, quietly, all the time.

Without my consent.

 I am.
Broken.
When?

All I want Is to be beautiful.

After you ask me...

Where are you from?

WHERE ARE YOU FROM?

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