“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
Cheers to letting go of the things we cannot control and allowing ourselves to heal
why would you break my heart into a million of pieces? Wasn't you the one who promised me that you would never leave my side? Now I'm left alone and the sharp pieces of my broken heart are starting to damage my innocent soul. My soul is bleeding. Can't handle it no longer. Will I die from loss of blood? Am I my own savior now?
Some people are in pieces, thats just the way they are now. And sometimes, each of those pieces holds the love of a lifetime. It is beautiful, unfair, and heartbreaking at times, when the pieces are not held by just one person.
she ran a hand over her heart. the tip of her finger got caught in a small stitch tightly sewn to keep her heart together. but in that fateful moment, the stitch quickly unraveled, loosening her still-beating heart until the pieces could do nothing but stumble around each other, crumble into soft, maroon dust, and settle into her weary bones.