Years ago I knew a girl.
She was small, and timid— and believed cleverness and friendship would solve everything.
She believed that good would prevail bad— because that’s how the fairytales always went.
There was always some virtuous ending.
Some righteous belief.
Lately, it doesn’t seem so.
Lately, I’m noticing that it was all wishful thinking.
Good will not always prevail.
Now is not the time to relegate to oblivion— or to let one’s mind wonder.
Violence is never stomped down with peace.
Now is the time to listen— to stand up, and let your voice be heard.
A message I wish the world to hear.

The grass is brown, and the skies are dark.
The wind is crisp and icy; the people are frowning.
That house is on fire, and the fire department is nowhere near.
The pages are burning, and we’re forgetting history.
Lies are believable when they have pretty lips—but the teeth are sharp, and the tongue is rotting.
The paint is peeling, and the floor is falling beneath us.
Yet everyone has filters applied to their realities—versions in which they tell themselves everything is fine.
To ignore everything will make it okay.
And I wonder—when the last filter fades, will they still believe it?

"Anywhere but here," I whisper as I lean over the railing. "Anywhere but here," I repeat like a prayer, a tuneful hymn. Maybe the hymn is the icy wind whipping against my face—whispering words greater than I can believe. The salty tears freeze as they plummet, shattering into pieces—my heart among them.
Down, down, down.
"Anywhere but here." The sentence plagues my mind, twisting and contorting. I turn it over and over in my head as I consider my chances: certain death or major injuries? To live or not to live—why must I ponder such an unjust question?
Why is it even a consideration?

The world is cruel, but I?

I am far crueler.

I wonder who sewed my clothes,
who made my shoes, who carved these walls that surround me—
carved my face, the sharp planes and the soft ones.
Who made me fierce, yet left me with a bleeding heart.
Who decided I was to be anything at all— and why it chose to shape the world as such.
Why this universe is one I am forced to grace—and taint.
One that, perhaps, taints me in return.
How these walls I call my skull are truly me,
and not some elaborate illusion.
I am but a piece of meat, a floating brain bumping around in a soup of blood, muscles, and bones.

What even am I?
And who are you?

No one sees me the way I see myself. And that’s very beautiful because it’s something I can harbor all to myself— no one can ever see me the way I do— simply because they’re not me.
It’s something I can call my own, myself, my own identity.
Wholly and unequivocally me.
And no one can change what I’ve decided to make of myself.
What opinions I’ve declared my own, how I free up my heart for just anyone.
How I believe anyone can change. How I split my heart open, even for a dying ant on the pavement.
And I weep for it.
And I weep for you.
And I weep for the world.
For there is no greater good than feeling everything and nothing all at once.
For weeping even for the unfortunate,
the unlucky,
the undeserved,
is inherently me.
And I’ve decided that for myself.
Maybe you couldn’t see it the same way.