From the shadows of the ancient dawn, the voices of forefathers The tapestry of human history is a blend of triumph and tragedy In the heart of Africa three hundred millennia past Life came to earth, the evolution of sapiens
They had no capes nor sweaters, and fought to survive or die waiting Following the wisdom of their elders, surviving another day Quartz sparking feasting on a giant Irish elk Seeking out solace and shelter, nestled in the cavern’s depth
Under the Tuscan sun, tales of strength and resilience Homo sapiens, possessing both perception and native wit Babylonian chronicles, unfolding the whispers of ancestry Listening to those mighty slumbers, under the quiet earth
I forgot to have a big dream Now that I think about it I never even found my passion The easy solution would be to claim that I’m a writer But that doesn’t feel true most days The words I write are not my own Rather the physical manifestation of my pain Of something within me that is beyond my control And removing them is a process that exhausts me
I never planned for my future I simply took it day by day Leaving me to feel lost and unprepared Unwilling to accept that this is it I am missing the feeling that used to drive me That gave me hope for what was to come Because I am in a future now Once again filled with words that hurt me And worried that this is all I will ever amount to
I once wrote that I was held together by duct tape… staples… and thorns of roses I also said that I was falling apart but no one noticed, Now it seems I must correct myself. Or rather acknowledge the changes that accompanied at the time.
It is obvious now that I am falling apart Something that everyone has noticed Or soon will. There is no denying that I can barely hold myself together The stitches that are meant to keep me in one piece are visible Which brings me to my next point.
The staples that once held me together were replaced with medical-grade stitches. Something stronger was required to keep me together, The duct tape was replaced with rope, A material that can withstand daily wear and tear. Surprisingly, the thorns remained.
But not to keep the smaller pieces of me attached Instead, they serve as protection To keep people from getting too close. The only thing that hasn’t changed is the fact that I am falling apart The saddest part? The only thing that I really wished would change Remains the same– The fact that I am falling apart.
I have killed a dozen butterflies… Had their powder dust my fingers As I grasped my hand tighter and tighter Afraid to let them fly away
They were my conquests Such delicate, almost ethereal things I watched them fly, Hoping someday I can too
I have killed a dozen butterflies… Afraid to let their beauty fade away I wasn’t content with just looking I wanted assurance that they would stay
I have killed a dozen butterflies… Even though I didn’t want to That wasn’t my goal But as I flit from one extreme to another Their wings were losing their dust My desire to protect them from the world Cut off their scales Destroyed their wings Made them die a slow death
I killed those butterflies… I’m sorry But I wanted to be in control And this was the only way I knew how
I’ve thought about The way the wind would whip my hair Away from my face just seconds before I find my end there On the rocks below Before your very presence brought A kind of happiness I wasn’t aware existed The kind I thought was mythical, you know?
There were days nothing could pierce The dark and heavy clouds With agony fierce in my chest And over my head I’d wish I was dead. I’d wish I never existed.
But then you came, the proverbial ray Of sunshine that could Make my day bright in a way It had never been before You didn’t cure my depression but You made me care in a way I wasn’t even sure I was capable of.
And with a reason to give a shit A reason anyone could benefit from My existence on this planet In this galaxy In the middle of nothing surrounded by more And vaster nothing in it.
I will never forgive you. It was easier before I knew Before when my crises were existential Not born out of the pull Of your gravity, your sparkle But born of a life so lacking in light It felt as if I was born in darkness And would remain hidden in fright And rage at a world so destroyed So bustling and annoyed That I couldn’t find my breath
But then there was you You with your face and voice and It was then I knew you’d ruin me I knew the score, waiting for the other shoe To drop as I learned I would never be your choice But still. Still, I pined and whirred around you Suddenly manic, a micro planet Stuck in the pull of your gravity’s force I know you didn’t mean for it to be this way It’s just how you are. It’s just what you do.
And so here I am a satellite, or perhaps space debris I’m certainly not a rocket I’m only me Falling, falling, falling. Into your orbit.
I wish that I was traumatized like people in movies are traumatized
I wish that other people could escape into my sad story to hide from their own
I wish that I was sardonic, I wish it made me funny
I wish that I was haunted not by entire years of life but by one single soundbite, a few flickering frames of film, something small enough to lock away and forget
I wish that the memories were in third person, distant, not seen through my eyes and made inescapable by perspective
I wish that it was precise, I wish I could remember each word well enough to repeat inside my head until it turns into a prayer
I wish that I woke from nightmares and sat bolt-upright, panting in bed with glycerine sweat on my brow, disheveled but somehow sexy as well
I wish that the nadir of my downward spiral was me crying and punching my own reflection in a bathroom mirror
I wish that emotional music played over the rock-bottom scenes, two thirds of the way through the movie to kid the audience that it’s all going to end right now
I wish that even as I cut into myself and the corn-syrup blood spurts from little tubes hidden under silicone skin, as artificial tears roll down my cheeks over ersatz bruises, my face would be stony and still like a statue of a saint
I wish that I would be rushed to hospital in a haze of red and blue lights and that my rescue would be medically accurate and miraculous
I wish that people around me would care
I wish that at my lowest point a manic pixie dream girl would take my hand and teach me to love life again, as if the issue isn’t what life has done to me but my attitude towards it
I wish that years of trauma could be negated by minutes of happiness
I wish that the parts of me that are trauma-formed were simply layers that obscure who I really am, that they could be shed like a snake sheds skin it no longer needs
I wish that they weren’t inseparable from me
I wish that those around me would be endlessly patient and understanding as I make my slow but steady progress, because they can see the good in me that is there for the benefit of the audience
I wish that I would have only a single setback in my recovery, and that my misery and fear would be resolved with a pep talk and a hug
I wish that I would take some minor but symbolic baby-step at the end of the movie that shows it’s all going to turn out okay
I wish that it would go the way the audience wants it to go
I wish that the ending of my movie would be happier than the start
my mind always thinks it’s a competition, between me and my intuition, repeating over and over lies I can’t deny, but on them, I rely. I’ve never even been given the second chance, always kicked out in the first glance, the loops and hoops of my empty mind not loved, making me believe I couldn’t have the doubt of the word. on every and each dream I have, I compete with myself who will be the most to be paranoid, and share, and hate the repetitions and inhibitions to be, and hate the real to see. the storm comes from the beginning of my stomach, and my hands shake in the name of a bruised scratch. I can’t deal with this emotion, I don’t want any commotion, and from the bottom of my lungs I scream, how I hate to be me, how I hate others to see, what I was meant to be.
