I think I was only born
So I could create art
I think I was born
So I could write
And never be written about
So I could draw
And never be drawn
So I could paint
And never be painted
So I could photograph
And never be photographed
So I could feel
And make others feel
But never be felt for
Maybe I was just born
To create art
But to never be art
God I wish I was beautiful
I wish I was beautiful
In the conventional way
All light skinned
And red lips
The kind of beautiful
That turned heads in public places
The kind of beautiful
That drove girls
Wild with jealousy
Wild with desire
The kind of beautiful
You found on the front page of magazines
The kind of beautiful
That you knew was beautiful
At first glance
I was just the beautiful
That was in my own way
You really had to look for
And dig deep to find
That only certain people saw
That didn’t catch eyes
Or turn heads
Or drive girls wild with jealousy
I was the beautiful
That didn’t really make me feel
All that beautiful
Most of the time
You don’t have to be soft and fragile and sweet, you can be hard and edgy and bitter. I know your eye lashes aren’t long enough and your eyes don’t exactly sparkle. Your skin flakes and your lips get chapped; you’re all kinds of flaws bundled into a package. You laugh loud and sit awkwardly and put flowers in your hair to make yourself feel pretty. You ask yourself questions you can’t answer, you lie to yourself too. You break hearts including your own again and again. You cry ugly then wipe your own tears.
So what if your eyes don’t hold stars and your smile is kinda wonky? So what if you don’t talk a lot and have a few friends? So what if you’re a hopeless romantic and he doesn’t want you? You’re bitten nails and messy hair and an unhealthy addiction to chocolate. There’s no other way to be you. You’re fucking art, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Originally posted on instagram: https://www.instagram.com/p/BMrVcqwDWm-/
“Jump”, she whispered. And so he did.
Liberated, exhilarated, Freed.
Oh how wonderful it felt.
The wind hard against his thighs,
the thighs that held stories,
stories of taunts, and ridicule.
He flailed his hands back and forth,
as if weightless, finally feeling light,
both physically and mentally.
The ground approached fast,
but he dared not look,
for what lay ahead plagued his mind.
Instead, he pondered.
He pondered over how a person
could be demeaned to something worthless,
worthless as an object.
He pondered over where along the journey
the brilliance of his mind
began to be recognized by his appearance.
He pondered over how ruthless the world was
only to recognize soulful excellence
by what lay in the exterior.
He pondered over how his extra inches
in any way determined
how much he could succeed in life.
He pondered and pondered, but in vain,
accepting that no right answer stood.
The ground fast approached.
Almost near enough to touch.
The force that it would exert as he’d land
made him wince.
But, the parachute worked its magic,
and landed him safely to the ground.
Feeling solid mass underneath his feet,
he took tentative steps,
realizing what the world needed:
his weight upon it.
For if it could not stand the burden,
the parachute would have failed to work.
Her finger nails tirelessly gnawed at the peeling, fraying wood lining her desk. The blistering cold outside did little to help the anger heating up inside of her. A strange kind of numbness had taken over and though her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, they were finally open for the first time in months. “How Dare he! HOW DARE HE!” she screamed inside her mind, not letting the tide of tears welling up in her eyes from flowing down. The skin beneath her nails began to blister but her mind was far too occupied to notice the blood droplets now staining her desk-top in a gory streak. The distinct pain she felt was all too familiar as she let herself feel it believing she deserved the entire ache she got. “What a liar, what a sore liar! How dare he take all the credit? How dare he!” she once again screamed in her mind as the thoughts from last night replayed in her crumbling brain. How he so innocently stood before her teachers, a hand on his heart, saying how proud he was for always being there for her, for getting her through this, for pushing her to recovery, for saving her. Her hands trembled, the blood beginning to boil inside her veins as they shook his hand again and again, glad their student had recovered thanks to his help. She knew it would do no good to tell them the truth. Tell them how he was a lying bastard, and that he was never there for her. She didn’t bother because she knew she was insane and they would surely prefer believing her father.
Her face was starting to turn red like the stains on her desk as she reminisced in the events from the night before. “Don’t do this to yourself again! Don’t do it!” her brain pleaded as she dug the wood further inside her finger tips. “I was all alone, it was all me. How dare he!” She felt ashamed and betrayed and bruised, how nobody acknowledged her efforts and blatantly believed the lies he fed them. It was hard to live in this world when you were broken into shards by something you could not control. She shook in rage as she remembered all those nights she wept on the bathroom floor, clutching her throat, suppressing the screams that tempted to be heard. She could still feel the hatred boiling through her as she looked down upon the world from the top of her apartment building, fractions away from jumping down. The feeling of having the blood pour down from her arms was still all too vivid in her head as her brain repeatedly chanted ‘deeper, deeper, deeper’. Yet here she sat reliving her sorrowful tale, and she had only herself to owe it to. She could only thank herself, because on each of those nights it was her who got off the bathroom floor, her who stepped down the ledge, her who wiped off all the blood and threw the blades down the sink. It was her who was now dusting up all the pieces. And it was her who had finally saved her. How dare he take all the credit.
She was bruised and she was broken, but she was still whole. She finally let the flush of tears run down her cheeks as tremors racked her frail body. The blood shining off her skin sent a wave of disgust through her as she hastily wiped it on her shirt. The bag she packed the night before was strapped upon her shoulder, as she carefully jumped down her window ledge; a jump that was finally going to lead to better things.
There was something about that particular moment that made it hard for her to focus on the books lying open in front of her. Her heart was pounding within her chest and she could not decipher why. It was not the first time she was in close vicinity with a boy she liked or had feelings for. However, having him sitting right in front of her across the table made it hard for her breathe. His feet under the table were close enough to brush against, and so were his hands, sprawled carelessly on the table, unaware of the other pair of hands itching to touch them. This mere meeting in the library due to lack of available space except for the one in front of her somehow became rather sensual without her consent and she both wanted this uncomfortable, yet blissful feeling, to end and last forever.
She sits in a crowded hallway, surrounded, but alone. Her restlessness is evident on her crooked broken nails, still caught in between her teeth. Her friends sit nearby laughing and joking, not suspecting that she is struggling to keep track with the story, that she’s struggling to stay on the same page, struggling to keep her mind from drifting, struggling. Occasionally, she gives a smile; sometimes fake, sometimes genuine. They believe it. They always do. She has mastered this art. Her eyes don’t give away anything. She gives her input, keeps herself involved, so she doesn’t have to think. Because when she thinks her mind goes to places, places she doesn’t ever want to visit.
At home, she’s alone in her bedroom. But she’s not really alone. The voices in her head nagging her throughout the day are especially loud now. They tell her things and that’s all she hears. She’s struggling to defy them, deny them, contradict them but they are strong. They tell her she is invisible, they tell her she is irrelevant. They tell her that she ruins everything just by her existence. The friends she has don’t really care for her. Her family would be better off without her. The world would be better off without her. She tries to rationalize, tries to convince herself that that is not true, because she knows it is not. But she believes them anyway.
Her life has become a constant struggle of wanting to break down and not breaking down, and wanting to give up but not giving up. Sometimes she thinks she needs help, but how could she tell her parents that she needed treatment for something they could not even see?
She lives on the conviction that she is strong, but for how long will ‘strong’ be enough? When everything is pulling her down, and the waves are engulfing her, will her strength be enough to keep her ashore?