Disclaimer: This one gets a little dark.
So jaded and hated as you break down into all the junk of life creating excess trash and depression with a road paved with bad intentions. Nothing you do is enough for anything and that’s because you’re less than a person in society’s eyes. The worst is what belongs to you for that is all that you are given in this putrid and debasing world. Who knew you could become so dark in a matter of seconds, but hey, no one is enough anymore so it makes sense that you decompose into fragments of dust littering the walls, surfaces, and polluting the water. You are now less than human in a world that bred you for consumption. As for me, I hope they enjoy their meal, for the secret ingredient is to DIE for.
I looked at our old pictures and nearly fell in love again,
A whirlwind of butterflies so bittersweet—oh the pain.
I guess all that I dreamt of was a waste and in vain.
Maybe I get a little antsy when things get tough. I clean my ambiance to refresh my aching muscles, especially the heart. Maybe I just want someone to hold my hand, look into my eyes and tell me that there’s company in the mess—the achy mess.
Such a laboring thought, to know that all you can do is wait. It’s almost as if your chest were a wet towel wrung dry many times and now the threads are jagged and frayed. I’m looking forward to opening my hands and letting it all go.
Today I smiled at the thought of deserts consuming entire cities.
It’s not up to you to fix what you did not break. It’s not up to you to chase what does not want to be followed nor to lose your peace for those with no peace in their hearts.
What you’re meant to do is to live well and freely without shackles imposed on you by others. You are meant to cut the threads connecting their words to your head so that you may think truly without their hidden agendas influencing your actions.
You don’t deserve a half-baked innocence.
Asteroids are falling into my atmosphere, their burning traces, crystal prisms.
They dig deep into my chest, opening spaces where perhaps leaves will grow after we sow this burned soil.
Flutters of color like butterfly wings whispering pieces of song that sirens can nice upon a time would sing.
Maybe these leaves will be blown to the water when the gusts pick up as none of this matters.
From where enters your strength, your will to live? It reminded of how battered and bruised I have been. A memory of black clouds coming down onto me haunts my head and I had hoped that I had healed that trauma, but they asked me: where does that strength come from? There were no good answers to that question. Perhaps it was this ancestral DNA or my mother’s mitochondrial DNA that let me live though the struggle. How ungrateful I must seem, to have that survivor’s will and to hate the act of having to survive. She must look at me with disdain or maybe with pity at knowing that her scars are inscribed into my genetic makeup too.
Why have you stayed? I am asked this question, not in so many words. Sadly, no responses escape because I hold the gates tightly shut for fear of being seen as the fool. Who could have thought that this would be the woman striving to bear the fruits of my labor—so hindered by a simple soul?