Dear Anxious People Pleaser,
I forgive you
for not being authentically you-
for worrying
about what others think,
hiding yourself
for the sake of others,
and for following
in the footsteps of others,
rather than walking your own path.

I forgive you.

To the Heart-On-My-Sleeve,
I forgive you for,
in the process of
deeply caring for others,
you neglected to care for yourself,
allowing yourself to be walked upon,
and drained to depletion.

I forgive you.

To the Optimistic, Ever Hopeful Mask,
I forgive you for putting on
that smile rather than displaying
what you truly felt,
covering everything with an
"It's all good!"

I forgive you.

To the insecure and frustrated boy,
I forgive you for
keeping everything buried,
locked up-
hidden,
and
by doing so,
you allowed yourself to grow
resentful, angry, and at times, cruel.

I forgive you.

To the Sacred Crying Child Inside,
I forgive you
for acting upon your anger,
and self-loathing,
that you hardened your heart
and treated others with harshness-
becoming those who wounded you.

I forgive you.

To the broken Soul,
and Healing Spirit,
I forgive you for being
"strong" for so long
that you failed
to revel in your own brokenness.

I forgive you.


I forgive you.
I forgive you.
I forgive you.
Ashé.

Is this what it is to love then?

-

To be forever in pain,

A fire burning in the pit of my stomach,

A smoke stinging at my eyes?

Is this fire never to be put out,

By the gentle touch of a beautiful river,

Never to be quelled by the loving hands

Of one who’s seasons change in time with mine?

-

Ah, but it must burn on,

For my love is not like others.

It is not the blooming, glorified sun,

It is the moon, hidden behind a cloud.

Neither is it the lively spring, crisp with newborn life,

It is the autumn, decaying leaves and approaching winter.

-

I am then to be spat on,

To be broken,

To be trapped like an infestation of rats.

It is the wrong love,

It is a snow shower in midsummer,

It is loving what is not yours to love.

-

Day after day I hear sweet words

Whispered or said in blossoming tones,

But they are not for me.

From those who I wish would whisper

Comes no word for they can never

Utter a single syllable to me.

-

And so must everyone but I

Feel the tender kisses of the sun

And find the first flowers

of spring laid on their pillow?

And shall I not bathe in the

Pale glow of a sublime sunrise or

Feel the passionate heat of a beautiful summer?

-

Ah, but I shall not.

I shall feel only the broken skin of hands in winter,

Feel the touch of a broken pine.

I will see only the angry stone of the mountains

And suffer the sting of the bee.

How brutal are the hearts of man,

Those stones I wish to crack.

-

Ah, what an impossible task it is that I have been set.

and I begin to wonder.

Was this love to love at all

or was it but a curse placed on me?

I have never once liked him.
I have lusted for him, and I have desired to hurt him.

I have never once loved him,
but oh, how he has haunted me in my daydreams.

He either deserts me or envelops me at night.

I would move close to him in the early morning,
give him a solitary kiss on the forehead,
on his arm, on his chest;
wherever I felt he would let me touch without pushing my lips away.

He would grip me from behind,
roll us over and kiss me only to get inside of me.

At one point, I thought this was the same thing.

He calls me mystery, wild child, baby blue.

He is turning me into an apology of this girl.

I am baby blood lust.

there was a time that I were blue

and when I met you, you were red

you touched my heart and I turned magenta

then one day you decided

that magenta didn't suit you

I take a deep breath and pause for thought

with a tiny smile and my eyes closed

I know that if I open them, I'll see myself

and there is nothing that I hate more.

you'll never realise how toxic the air around you is

until you stick your head out of the window

something I've never understood is how it's the saddest people that think the most beautiful thoughts

why is it that
even with the bleariest eyes, the most grainy minds

I find myself wide awake

owl-eyed at 4am

high on the thought of you, sweetheart.

one day you'll meet a person wearing an orange shirt

and even though you used to hate orange

now you find yourself noticing that it has become the colour of your world.

most people die at 30

but those people aren't buried until they're 80.

as a human you have the right to live the life you want to.

don't let your soul die before your body does.