“What they don’t tell you
about the gentle ones,
is how we keep all our hurts in cages,
and line them up like circus attractions
on the inside of our own chests.
We carry the weight of them,
and call it surviving.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the ones who grew up
walking tightropes,
is that we only look so graceful
because we never learned
how to climb down
and we call this
remarkable.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the illusion
is that I am as much lion
as I am lion tamer.
And I got good at inflicting pain
the same way I got good
at soothing it.
This, we call unfortunate,
but inevitable
and sure.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the gentle ones
is how raw we all are,
just below the surface:
how the roar of the crowd
feels like a city burning;
how we love like immolation;
how we leave nothing but dust
in our wake.
.
We call this
poetic justice.
What they didn’t tell you
about us
is that we’ve learned so well
that we only have to be cruel
once.”
— The Gentle Ones

I tell myself I will write something new everyday but it's all a lie.

Oh dear, I have become a monster to my self.

I know you're tired and you want to put it to rest
But this can't be the end of it
Remember all those things you'd always dreamed you'd have?
All these famous guys you made yourself believe you're destined to marry,
Those places you'd excitedly mapped out in your head,
That plan you had, that once you're free you'd roam the world
Please
I know it's hard
And the future seems more vague than ever
But please try to endure
Please, even just a little more