Jan 2015
Some days I wake up and I look in the mirror, and I look at the person staring back at me and wonder, when did I become the ghost of a shell of a girl? I remember when my eyes used to shine and I would look at my reflection when I walked by windows, thinking I was really something to be.
It's a little past new years, and I've come a long way from a year ago, two years ago, three years ago. Sometimes I smile and I light up again and I mean it. I really do. Some days I still fall back into the rhythm of numbness and I think about cutting ties with everyone around me because I don't want to drag anyone down with me.
Everyday unfolds in front of me like a mystery, and I guess that's the same for everyone everywhere, but when I wake up there's ultimately one question I ask myself, "Will this be a good day, or a bad day?" And the truth is I never really know the answer, no one does. Some days I can get hit by frozen rain and I brush it off because I remembered my umbrella and I was a little bit stuffy anyways and the wind feels nice when it brushes my cheeks. Some days It's sunny and bright and there is every hope for my future but I still struggle to form words and I can barely even hear myself when I say "You're okay, you've always been okay." There are hurricanes on my fingertips and if I stand too close to an edge sometimes I convince myself I will jump off.
I am healing and growing and learning and trying. I am a mess of perfections and imperfections, obsessions and discontent.
I am a warped record that once had something to say, but the sun and the rain and the moon have damaged me and I keep repeating the same lines as though time might change their meaning.
My room was covered in the names of the people who hurt me, changed me, broke me, so I stripped off the wallpaper and repainted my colorful walls with the dullest shade of beige they had at Home Depot. When I looked around at my bare walls I packed my bags and moved 800 miles away from everything that reminded me of his ******* acne scars or the way I almost broke my mothers heart. The desert dried me out and I am learning to look at sunrises again without hating myself, and I am rewriting stories on how to love myself even if I don't always feel like I should.
I can hold the hand of someone new, and feel something without drowning. I can feel wanted without being scared and I am even starting to tell myself that I am good, even though most of the time I do not feel very good.
I am learning and breathing and kissing and feeling.
I am okay, I have always been okay.
It's a little past new years, and I've come a long way from a year ago, two years ago, three years ago. Sometimes I smile and I light up again and I mean it. I really do. Some days I still fall back into the rhythm of numbness and I think about cutting ties with everyone around me because I don't want to drag anyone down with me.
Everyday unfolds in front of me like a mystery, and I guess that's the same for everyone everywhere, but when I wake up there's ultimately one question I ask myself, "Will this be a good day, or a bad day?" And the truth is I never really know the answer, no one does. Some days I can get hit by frozen rain and I brush it off because I remembered my umbrella and I was a little bit stuffy anyways and the wind feels nice when it brushes my cheeks. Some days It's sunny and bright and there is every hope for my future but I still struggle to form words and I can barely even hear myself when I say "You're okay, you've always been okay." There are hurricanes on my fingertips and if I stand too close to an edge sometimes I convince myself I will jump off.
I am healing and growing and learning and trying. I am a mess of perfections and imperfections, obsessions and discontent.
I am a warped record that once had something to say, but the sun and the rain and the moon have damaged me and I keep repeating the same lines as though time might change their meaning.
My room was covered in the names of the people who hurt me, changed me, broke me, so I stripped off the wallpaper and repainted my colorful walls with the dullest shade of beige they had at Home Depot. When I looked around at my bare walls I packed my bags and moved 800 miles away from everything that reminded me of his ******* acne scars or the way I almost broke my mothers heart. The desert dried me out and I am learning to look at sunrises again without hating myself, and I am rewriting stories on how to love myself even if I don't always feel like I should.
I can hold the hand of someone new, and feel something without drowning. I can feel wanted without being scared and I am even starting to tell myself that I am good, even though most of the time I do not feel very good.
I am learning and breathing and kissing and feeling.
I am okay, I have always been okay.
