I understand what I used to be
I understand I used to glow and laugh and smile
Everyone loved that
I was carefree
Feeling like honey bathed in sweet, warm sunshine

And now...
Not even a stalker can pinpoint
                                                         where
                                                                          it
                                                                                  went
                                                                                             downhill
But telling a drowning person they used to be on land doesn't save them.

I don't know either.
Maybe I am drifting
Maybe I did something wrong
Maybe I'm losing my mind,
my sanity, my worth, my sense.
Or maybe I opened my eyes
And saw the thorns on your roses
through bleeding eyes.

Somebody told me I could fly.
I believed them.
Somebody told me I was worth it.
I believed them.
Somebody told me I had a purpose.
I believed them.
Somebody told me I was beautiful.
I believed them.
Somebody told me I was loved.
I believed them.

Or so I told them.
Because the demons in our HEADS never shut up.
They never rest, so in turn, neither do we.
They draw out their ugly claws.
You feel them dig deep into your skin, locking into place.
They see you as their first love.
The kind of love no one ever forgets.
And they SCREAM.
Ear piercing screams driving straight down into your SOUL.
And silence...
Then...

Someone tells you you can fly.
"You'll fall."
Someone tells you you're worthy.
"You're worthless."
Someone tells you you have a purpose.
"You're useless."
Someone tells you you're beautiful
"You're uglier than us."
Someone tells you You're loved.
"By the darkness lurking in your head. Grab the knife, honey."

Eyes like diamonds
Deep and beautiful
Capturing my soul.
If a siren's voice were a tangible creation,
it would be her eyes.
Like a void.

I would leap in without a second thought.

I find myself awake at night.
Unable to sleep.
Lost in my thoughts.
Talking to myself.
Or my best friend - my notebook.

I've known it since I could talk: freedom will never be mine.
It was never my mother's.
It was never my grandmother's.
It was never my great grandmother's.

When you are raised like I am, you are taught from the moment you can walk
that you will need to be someone's wife.
You know that some day, someone, somewhere will come looking for you.

Sounds sweet, doesn't it?
It is.
Sickening and unsettlingly so.

If you are raised the way I am, love exists.
Just not for you.
It's not something you will get willingly in the end.

Yes, you may find it when you're young.
But in the end
the inevitable is that you will need to force yourself to love him.

And he has to be "him"
Rich, smart.
Who gives a **** about if he's a good person?
Who gives a **** about whether or not he cares?
the whole point is to multiply.

So, slowly,
I've come to acknowledge
that this isn't a Disney movie
No one will come looking, no one will accept
Nor will I be able to look for them
the broken and insane mess that is me.

Trust me, I know it.
I knew it before you said it
before you knew it
before you even thought it.

I wasn't always like this and you know that.
I was vibrant and happy and free and reckless and joyous and dramatic and full and...
and...
and everything was beautiful.

But I know I'm not like that anymore.
Life has pushed me to the ground, held me there and made me watch.
I watched the life disappear from my eyes.
You didn't see it.

You didn't see me looking at myself in the mirror everyday.
Watching the confidence and light drain from my body like water running through a riptide.

So, yes.
Yes, I know I'm not, in your words, "The right head, no offence."
The polite way of calling me ****** in the head.
I know that.
I watch it get worse and worse evey day.
Until my clock stops ticking.

It was real.
I can feel it.
Like fingers wrapping
Around my wrist.
Wispy and delicate...
Or rough and jagged?

You tell me it never happened.
But why is my pillow stained with my tears?

Because I know my tears were real.
But to you...
They were just phantom tears.

Sharp heat sears through the layers of my skin.
White hot and blinding, leaving an echo in the room I once called my home.

Then follows the deafening silence.
Enveloping the shell of what was once a free and happy child.
What is now empty and lifeless.

Because you can hit her.
She's your punching bag.
The kind that won't swing back.
So, go on. Do it again.

And kiss it better just to shatter it again.