She became convinced that the measure of her existence hung in the balance. That the complexity of her calm fell in the number of idle breaths she took a day That her beauty was a scarcity of times that she glanced at the mirror without feeling repulsed. She is fragile. Picking up the broken pieces that were once amassed to create a woman. Beautiful and resolved. All it takes for such a woman to fall, is the absence of someone to pick up the pieces. And instead of being her own someone. Her own harrowing warrior. She fell. Cracked under pressure. She was broken. And needed everything she swore she’d never want. Searched for her own validation in the hands of another. And slowly wept; wilted away into her own self demolition. She lived shadowed under a blanket of grievances. They were no longer the materialistic obstacles that used to hoard her time. The were deep and dark and ugly. She’s slipping into a black hole of her own creation. In a list for validation to find value in herself hidden in the arms of another. When will she realize that she is the only person that will give her worth. She is the only one who can understand her value. And she must fight to be comfortable in her own skin and bones rather than listlessly searching for a piece of her, hidden in a puzzle of broken souls. She is fragile. But she will live. And she will learn to love the pieces that have gone astray, the rounded edges and the bitterness that keeps her up till early hours. She will learn to look into the mirror and be content. She will pick up her own pieces. Put them into place. She was fragile. But now she is found. Pieced together the broken. And the broken; Now forever bound.
The way my hips sway every time that I walk The piercing regret that sets in after I talk When I look in the mirror it’s a monster I see A monster that looks a whole lot like me I don’t understand when this girl got so bad I just wish her eyes in the mirror weren’t so sad You see, I feel disconnected from the reflection that I own. No more confidence Into self-loathe I’ve grown.
Looking for all the right answers in all the wrong places. Looking to find myself in everybody else’s faces. Can’t keep praying for what I swear I don’t need. Can’t keep trying to understand a book I won’t read. I expect others to see value in a place I never do. I expect my plans to succeed though I don’t think them through. Obsessive. Compulsive. Right in all the wrong ways. Seems like I’ll be stuck here choking on self-hatred till somebody stays.
It’s late and I miss you. You were to be my everything My refuge You kept me safe. From myself. Happy.
It’s late and I miss you. My mind wanders I’ve thought up A million things to say to you Things I won’t. But wish I could.
It’s late and I miss you. And life is short. But so was your temper. And I’m still trying to make sense of what happened.
It’s too late. I miss you. You called today. Not even the warmth of your voice could salvage the icy front I had put up. You weren’t here when I needed you.
If I write you into my world Then I haven’t given you up. I tear pages of you from my heart Erase paragraphs of your existence I try to rob myself of your presence And still I seem to cry tears made up of your promises and breath air polluted with your words.
If I break my own heart waiting for you And scribble it on a page Then I haven’t forgotten you yet You don’t know the color of my eyes The taste of my lips or the pigment of my cheeks when you say hello.
If I write myself senseless stories of you Being everything I ever wanted Then your breath is still in my lungs I exhale. Trying to expel your beautiful taste that has become far too addictive. I choke on good intentions. And bleed desperation. Desperate to forget about you. Desperate to no longer depend on that smile to set my day into motion and that voice to lull me to sleep.
I try so hard to erase you from my mind, to cleanly reap the seams binding you to my heart, and binding my heart to my sleeve. It wasn’t until looking you in the eyes for the last time that I realized, my inability to form a coherent thought about you unless it was spilled across paper in permanent ink, was the tangible prison destined to tie me down for all eternity.
You see, I had erased myself from the pages of your book, only to find that you cluttered every chapter of my own.
“It’s whatever” He said with tears in his eyes He hid away Broken. I didn’t fall for his lies His parents drank often He promised himself he wouldn’t I told him to stay strong He told me, he couldn’t He got home from school Everyday exhausted Nobody realized his strength Until one day he lost it. For him to inhale and say yes one more time. To a life he was robbed of The most complex of crime. He sat in class silent, But when asked he would spill Because all he needed Was someone to listen and be still He’d tell them his story The one he told me And they’d watch amazed at the new depths they’d see. A boy who was strong A boy who was clever But when concluding his tale He’d just utter “it’s whatever”
“Raise girls to be resilient, raise your voice to be heard and when silenced, raise it higher. In a household of girls, my parents always told me that I was to be educated so I wouldn’t have a man treat me less than I deserved. That I work so hard that I wouldn’t need a man to tell me I was not enough. So I persevered, I stood by morals and chose to educate myself with books and words. But I am still silenced at times for calling myself a feminist, for speaking a little too forcefully, laughing too loudly, and writing too freely. I then understood that I was a woman, a woman with a voice who spoke for all woman who were afraid to. A boy fears a woman who is strong and educated, don’t worry because you don’t need him. If you know who you are, what you do and you are proud. That is all you need, you is all you need. “
