#spilled truth

I met you in february last year, and I had to leave you exactly twelve months later. These months were both the best, but also the worst months of my life. You made me feel so happy in the beginning, but most of the time you made me miserable. Leaving you was one of the hardest things I had to do. Sometimes I regret it, but I’m starting to be happy that for once, I chose myself.

When we were together, I forgot everything around us. You were all I saw. But now that you’re gone, it’s like I didn’t even live the past two years. You were all I knew.

Friday nights hurt the most. These nights, when all my friends are going out, I’m stuck crying in my bedroom because I can’t get over you. I spend my nights reliving all of our good times; our bodies intertwined in bed and the laughter we shared on our days out in the city. How did it get this far?

I want to get over you but at the same time I don’t. I don’t want to be over the memories we shared. I don’t want to forget the feeling I got when you looked at me with your bright eyes. I don’t want you to turn into a stranger again.

I’ve always wanted to see more of the world. You took my hand and showed me new places and took me on adventures. I went out of my comfort zone, but I always had you beside me to hold my hand. I will always be thankful for that, because I will never forget our adventures together.

The two months without us talking felt like a century but I’m still right there where you left me. I’m still very much in love with you and I can’t picture my future without you. What am I to do now?

It’s not fair that he got to move on so quickly while I’m still stuck here trying to pick up the broken pieces he left me with.

‘And he’s painted over your mirrors

so his touch is in your eyes;

you try to purify yourself in water

but his fingers have muddied the supply—

you move out of the house

but his ghost is with you still;

I’ll learn to love my reflection, you repeat,

but you don’t think you will.’

'smeared mirrors,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1263

‘Oh, how loud are his trumpets!—

but how graceless is the tune;

his flags are painted in such bright colours,

but with so messy a stroke—’

'the pride of the fool,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1262

‘put a woman together, the dream-man said.

I took the pin

and rolled her skin thinner.

put the woman together, the dream-man said.

I weighed the brain and heart as one

but left the lungs and liver.

put the woman together, the dream-man said,

and I chose eyes for her;

now put her together, he repeated, voice irritated, now—

but I had no clue how to stitch her.’

'the woman together,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1261

looking into a heart-shaped mirror,

seeing ringlets and lace and long long lashes, thinking.

thinking,I’m the prettiest doll

that I’m ever going to be.

my doll-house is where I keep my victories.

over-achiever, people-pleaser;

I spend all my time

before some kind of mirror –

it’s easier to believe you’re a pleasure to teach

when you’re a pleasure to see.

I wonder,

just how long

before my china shoulders shatter?

I won’t be fuckable forever.

what if I end up as a grave

that no stranger will never admire?

go at your own pace,

says the old woman

who lives in my head.

she rocks, on a rocking chair;

I rock with her, try and listen

when she says, calm down.

you have so many years ahead of you.

open my jewellery box. a thousand baubles

for a hundred achievements –

and which one of them is enough?

flowers blossom beautifully and die quickly:

maybe I’m done. maybe my season’s up.

choker of pearls. aren’t you a pretty girl?

I’m not so special as they said,

and my luck will not forever last –

I’ll fail, soon. and I’d rather be dead.

we are rocking, still. harder, now:

my nails bite into my calves.

my breathing is shallow, sharp:

a sad stream, shuddering through

a Winter wall of jagged rocks.

fall, my old woman suggests, voice soft

like a skipping stone. cry. I’ll catch you.

I don’t.

‘I wrote this instead,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1259

‘look, look: the hearth is warm;

the beds rest on clouds, your spirit on stars.

do you want the door to open? if so, then speak!

you are but one step away— you lock yourself behind bars.

are you not starving here? do you not weep?

take on the lion’s courage, and be brave:

conquer your fear of the door, my darling,

and you will be warm— you will be saved.’

'1 chronicles 17:25,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1258

‘I love like I eat:

in dainty bites— I’m all downturned desperate eyes,

never wanting the chef to know that I’m still hungry.’

'hunger,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1257

‘I know the fire burns,

but is it truly hot? Truly bright?

Is it doomed to fade, entirely unknown,

in a dark and uncaring night?

Will these flickers of potential

turn out to be nothing after all—

what if I am nothing noteworthy?

what if I cannot climb higher? Will only fall?’

'potential,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1256

‘light exists not in passivity;

light burns, and brightens, and purifies.

tame not the anger that rises from compassion;

never dull the shine of loving eyes.’

'isaiah 58,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1255

‘I do not deserve all your roughness

simply because I will not break;

my bleeding is not yours to give,

when it is mine to take.’

'gentle handling,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1254

‘He sees the world all filled with mirrors: he sees not others, but how he feels about others; he loves not me, but his love for me.’

'the self-centred man,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1253

Don’t stay silent when it’s loud.

Dear Readers,

I wanna sit down with you.

In the middle of 2018.

As you know, I have epilepsy.

I had an orchestra concert (For school), the last one of the school year to be specific.

The president of the orchestra student council (As I like to call it) moved.

So my friend was picked to do the speech instead.

During my friend’s speech…

It’s the last thing I remember.

Then the next second…

When I blinked…

When I opened my eyes again…

The audience weren’t in their seats.

I wasn’t sitting down with my cello listening to my friend’s speech.

I was laying on the floor…

With paramedics and my parents around me instead.

They took me home in the ambulance.

I remained a scar in my heart.

Why?

I had epilepsy…

No doubt, I knew that.

My friends knew that.

My family knew that.

The church I went to knew that.

After all, I said it on a microphone at church.

But…

Now a bunch of strangers know that too.

At church, I wanted them too…

But I didn’t want the entire school to know…

Now they treat me differently…

They stare…

They treat me nicer than other people…

I feel like a fucking a sick, depressed, excluded, alien.

Is there something wrong with being epileptic?

Yes, it’s horrible to have.

But I’m still a person.

I still feel.

I still have questions.

Will I ever be able to play again? Everything reminds me of the concert.

I’m too traumatized. Am I even traumatized?

Why has almost everybody changed?

Why didn’t somebody just turn on the A.C.?

How long was the seizure?

How many people helped?

How many people faked their smiles after I regained consciousness?

How many instruments were damaged?

Why wasn’t I told I may have a seizure in the heat?

How many people didn’t care?

How many people knew about epilepsy?

How many people did not know?

How many people believed in the stereotypes of epilepsy?

I know my questions will never be answered.

But I want the world to know from my point of view.

There’s one question only the future can answer…

Will I ever be able to touch and/or play my cello again?