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Tag Archives: self

War Paint

Sometimes, I want to paint my face pretty.

Dye my hair a different color – any other color, something not my own.

The mirror shines my face back at me and I notice everything that needs to be fixed. I notice the color of my skin, the scars, the lines and wrinkles, the bone structure, my nose. I think about what would make it better, prettier. I think about how I’m not better, prettier.

I daydream about makeup and pretty skin. I fantasize about being what I’m not.

I have to build myself up every time I don’t pick up the brush, or apply foundation. I have to forget my face every time I step outside.

Most of the time, I want to be pretty.

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A Magician Knows

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I can’t think about it. If I think about it, I feel and if I feel it…

I miss it.
I start missing my heart before it was covered in scars and I miss him when we had no lives to get on with. I miss her and her outrageous laugh and the way she looked up to me.
I miss being looked up to.
I miss the freshness of my blood and the way every feeling hit me like an electric shock. Every breath would fill the outline of my chest, take it’s time on the soft parts of my mouth, and become an invisible cloud I could still somehow see.

If I think about it, I’m older. I know more and I’ve felt so much and I know how to keep things at bay. Every arm’s length-distance I place between me and whatever-it-is makes me wish I could go back to how I was before I hated things touching my heart.

Maybe I’m not as messy as I once was. Though, was it all bad to be that raw to the world? To drink from a glass and let it dance from the edge to your tongue and feel it like it was the first time?

I can wield my words like magic, but what’s the use if I know the secret behind the tricks?

Maybe I want to be awed by it, too.

I want to feel for the first time, again.


War

You can find me in the lock-jawed silence of every word I have never spoken when it meant the most – when the bombs were planted at the base of every heartache and mistake, and I only stood watching, mouth zip-tied shut.

I let the ruins of shattered memories fill me with ghosts I have never learned to forget, and at night they come out of my throat like flames.

Can you find the war still going on behind my eyes, and can you feel the loss inside me?

The shadows feel like old friends with daggers pressed into my back, but I hold them with love I’ve never stopped feeling. I whisper with my last breath that I will save them, when I never could. When they could never save me.

He called it trauma.

I didn’t even think the shell of myself was so cracked.

How was I supposed to know this is what it feels like when the war has gone on for years? Even though the white flags were raised, no one can let go of the anger.

I didn’t realize I was still dealing with the aftermath.

 


Ruins

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Sometimes it feel likes a stone arch, one that you would find in the ruins of some old place. There’s something so beautiful and yet so sad about it. You press your hand to it and try to breathe in the life that used to be there.

I’m sure that when others say they have an old soul they don’t mean one that was born into the world already in ruins. Or so easily able to be crumbled. Like it has already weathered from time that had yet to even touch it. Yet sometimes it feels like an ancient stone arch. Or maybe pieces of one.

I’m not a landmark that everyone wants to see, to wish they had been apart of or had seen in it’s glory. In the midst of everything, a few wandering glances might catch sight of me and see beauty from the wreckage, but mostly I’m an overlooked, rundown, nothing-great.

The stories found here aren’t so wondrous. They aren’t magical and they don’t take you to some far-off place.

The stories found here are as plain as stone and maybe just as cold. Don’t forget to wear your jacket and tread carefully. Don’t slip on any cracks.


The Love I’m Made Out Of

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I kissed you, when every word I could think of was just too damn difficult to say. Words have never been easy but, dammit, I could kiss you hard enough to show everything through that one action. Don’t you dare tell me otherwise.

My breath would catch in my throat and my mouth would go dry. My heart would beat like a jackhammer and I would feel every flood of emotion in my blood. And I could still show it in every kiss.

Fingertips trailing on your skin, did you know I spelled out every word I felt over and over until it didn’t make sense?

IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIpromiseIloveyou.

I won’t talk about the maybe’s. I won’t talk about the could-have-been’s, what-if’s, and I-wonder’s.

But I can still recite the love that made up every cell from the moment I fell for you. It could still pour out of my mouth like I was never broken. They might not be pieced back together for you, but they could be created again. Under new management, anyway.

And I will close my eyes and tilt my head to the skies and pray for a new love in my pulse. My tongue will twist in my mouth until it can finally make the phrase anew: I love you.

Every heartbeat I feel is just a ticking clock counting down until my world explodes in new color that makes my blood boil and my mind soothe. Something so conflicting and calming and chaotic that it will take my breath away until all I can gasp for is the air from that connection.

Da Duh. Da Duh. Da Duh.

The clock is just counting down.


I’m just… Me.

 

I can’t get it out of my head; everything I’ve ever said or done like it’s one big ink stain on my reality. Like I’m the only reason why there are fall backs and hindrances.

I swear I’m not a huge fuck-up but I see everything pointing back to me and even while I know it’s false that’s the only thing that sounds right. My head can shake in refusal and nonacceptance but it still presses further and further into my being like once it makes its way through, that’s it. It’s written in stone. It’s truth.

Everyone tries to twist my words and my actions, they try to twist what kind of person I am to fit their lives. Of course then when I can’t find it in me to let anyone in, it’s my fault and somehow I’m still the one fucked up.

These bonds people place on my wrists to theirs feel brittle while they look like diamond to everyone else. One jerk in the other direction and we’re both let free, but somehow they don’t see that.

I’m not the bad guy. But I’m also not the hero.

I wish everyone would understand that I am not their hero.

I am not a hero.


The Ache of Florescence

I haven’t been myself lately, kind of like trying to copy who I am from a blurry image. Parts of me feel like smoke and now I’m just waiting for a strong enough breeze to sweep me away.

There are parts of my head that I want to shut off, and there are parts of my heart I want to keep quiet. I can’t tell where this screaming is coming from but these tears keep threatening to spill from my eyes. It’s like there’s a tripped wire somewhere in me that has let something shift, when it shouldn’t.

It doesn’t feel like a cold friend. And this doesn’t have a sick comforting familiarity.

Something aches inside of me, something feels missing. I can’t put my finger on it but I feel the gray under my skin. Warm water doesn’t wash it away and neither does his hands.

I don’t know where I got lost but somehow I have no idea where I am. I’m lost even to myself.

I want to wake up and pretend this is all a dream. But it’s not, and there’s no warm bed I’ve forgotten to wake up in.