“I wish I wrote the way I thought;
Obsessively,
Incessantly,
With maddening hunger.
I’d write to the point of suffocation.
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns,
Manuscripts spiraling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing.
And I’d write about you a lot more than I should.”
-Benedict Smith

But instead I write nothing
And hope that my thoughts are understood through my actions
Knowing the impossibility of it all
Because of the enigma that I was and continue to be
Desperate to fix myself when there is nothing broken
Grasping at pieces to make whole what was never shattered in the first place

I have created an illusion for myself to live with my trauma and try to label what makes me different
But I am slowly realizing that trauma does not define me
And my differences are what make me unique
What give me the power to view the world the way I do
What will enable me to change the broken world around me and finally allow myself a sense of peace

Some may say that I am selfish, to want to fix others but to never acknowledge my own flaws
This is not me saying I am perfect, but instead me finally giving myself closure from the wounds inflicted upon me by others... and by my self
No longer need I patch myself up and play the role designed by those trying to mold me into what they think I should be
No more do I daydream about the ways I could love you but never be loved in return
For the first time, I am free

And I felt as though I was burning from the inside out,
Choking on thick, black smoke while my mind began to fill with the ashes of what I once was.

Then he showed up and soothed my scorching soul all the while igniting something else. Something much deeper, that would hurt much more had he chose to blow it out.
Love...

Thankfully, mercifully, I thought, he decided to let me burn, but for too long. I began to sizzle out. For when the same spark finally caught fire in him, the bonfire that was once ablaze in me was reduced to nothing more than a charred pile of memories..