#regulusblackdefender
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i say i am all bad. rotten down to my genetics, molding from the day you picked me from the shelf and brought me home. i accept the pain that comes with being inedible, for i believe i deserve it.
but there is a part of me. a golden part, one untouched by the knives and mold and time. one that is still free. one that wants so badly to teach those i can't anymore to make angel cake. one that wants so badly to sit in summer fields and eat mulberries from the tree that was cut down the year my father died. one that is gentle. one that still goes roller skating in her grandmother's kitchen. one that knew not how to find constellations, but loved to tell you obscure star facts.
i may feel rotten and spoiled like milk, but this part, this gentle, soft girl who never got the chance to move on? she's in another universe where she teaches her mother and best friend to make cake. one where she eats mulberries and draws on the back porch with her father. one where she gets to be gentle because nothing has forced her to harden up. one where her grandmother has the perfect kitchen for skating around in her brother's shoes. one where she asks her father where orion is and talks all night to her mother about the stars.
in another universe, i got to be gentle.
#regulusblackdefender#mine#personal rant#daddy issues#mommy issues#self love?#i love too much#in another universe#馃
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sunset on the river and in a walmart parking lot
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i think i am an okay person. i know i can't be a good person, but i don't think that means i am a terrible person.
grief has rotted away like an apple core in my soul. but that rot is full of seeds, and those seeds are slowly digging their roots down to anchor me in reality. their harvest will be plentiful. i am glad i met who i am after she died.
but the strange thing about her death is that everyone is acting like i died too. we shared the same last name, same eyes, same laugh, same humor, yes. but i am not her. i lost two people that night; my mother, and the girl i was.
after that night, an anger began to boil over inside me. i was claws and teeth, i was knives and blades, i wanted to make people hurt. all that tender hurt was hidden under layers and layers of pressing rage. i did not truly want to hurt people. i just wanted them to hurt me back. it was only when i had bruises blooming like a morbid garden on my arms and legs and was tearing out thorns from my hands after a tumble down a ravine did i realize that. the boy who hurt me didn't get so much as a scratch. i ended up scarred.
i don't want to hurt people. but there is a violence under my skin, a venom in my mouth, that aches to be put away. just because i have said cruel words doesn't make me a cruel person. i did not mean them. they came from a place of ache. i wanted to be yelled at for doing wrong, because without her, who would yell at me anymore? when you are not fed love on silver spoons, you learn to lick it off of knives. and when that love is coated in poison? you find a nostalgic comfort in the pain.
all this to say i don't think im a bad person. i think i am an average person who has been through bad things. i think i am an average person who has done some bad things out of a place of hurt. but i am certainly not a good person.
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there's something so raw and beautiful about humanity in love. i am a mosaic of people who have been in love, and it ends with me. i have my mother's eyes, my father's need for spontaneity, my grandmother's patience, my aunt's love of space, etc. and mixed and molded together it created me.
one of humanity's biggest continual theme is the fear of being forgotten. hands chip away at marble to create statues that beg to not be forgotten. brushes held by people, every stroke a constant prayer to be remembered at all. we forget as time goes on and nobody wants to forget. nobody wants to be forgotten. we want the world to remain in vivid colors in memory, remember their touch, his eyes, her breathy whispers, his dimples. i want to be remembered. as a poet and artist, sure, but more for simply being human. there is no criteria a person should have to meet for being memorable. i remember everyone for as long as i can. my mother died in May, but i still remember her laugh. i have her laugh.
when are the dead really gone? of course, when their heart stops and they aren't breathing. but, under the hopeful assumption that we have souls or spirits, why then does their presence linger? my mother's soul is stained on my hands and hangs in my hair like the smoke from her cigarettes. my father's soul is nestled in the deepest crevice of my heart, hidden away in my primitive urge to forget him. i won't forget him.
i wouldn't be a good mother. i am from a family of bad parents and even worse kids. as a girl with a tendency to bite affectionately, it's a shame my teeth are coated in poison. i am a mother figure already, to my three younger siblings. they are scared of me. i have breakdowns if nothing works. i can't stand infants. i have, on multiple occasions, hit my youngest sister for not cooperating. i come from a family of control. really, all i want is tenderness and domesticness. but instead every aspect of my life is a fight for control. i want to live without fighting for it.
humanity in love is stupid. it's beautiful. we create poetry, songs, plays, novels, movies, musicals, art, etc. to show our devotion. i hope i never fall out of love. i hope i never lose my humanity.
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Cassandra by Taylor Swift is so vanity coded and i could explain but i choose not to
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save a little love for yourself. because some days we all feel unloveable. but i promise you, someone wants to love you. someone wants to be there with you. and maybe that person is you. so before you leave the house, make sure you check your sock drawer. last night you were so tired you dumped all your love in there. before you go away, make sure you check your favorite bag. one of your friends left a little bit of love there for you to find in the morning as a joke. before you turn off the bedroom light, make sure you check under your bed. when you fell asleep last night you must've still been holding a cup of love, and it spilled under the bed. it smells like summer. before you leave home for good, check the fridge. you saved some chocolates for your friend, but she never stopped by to take them. they taste like a better time. it gets easier. so check under the covers on a rainy day. you can find true meaning in the way the wildflowers reach towards the sun. love is inevitable. it curls around you like a blanket. love is gentle. love is soft. love is waiting for you to find it. i love you.
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i have a habit of living in fear of what the dead will think of my life.
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today i will get out of bed. i will open the blinds, and i will soak up the sunlight like a sponge soaking up water. i will look at the things he gave me, and every picture of me and a dead person on my mirror. and today, ill know it was for the better. i will go to school and understand the unspoken rules the girls have. i will follow them. and even though i do not look like they want me to, i am smart enough to keep myself together when they call me names. i will get home at three and call my best friend. i will talk bad about a girl who is like a mirror image of me. she is reverse, but too similar. still too similar. and i will let my brother scream at me, because i would scream at me too if i could. i know it's because i look too much like my mother. that's not the only thing i inherited from her, but it's the only thing people who didn't know her will notice we share. i also have her hunger for destruction. the bubbling of ache under our skin was shared. but she pulled it together enough to have a family, whereas i never will. the twin sized mattress i sleep on calls my name. i lay down to stare at the stick on stars on my ceiling. they're in the virgo and leo constellations. they mean the most to me. im a scorpio. i will wait until after dark to text his old account. and maybe i will know it's for the better that he left today. but i have texted him for too long, and it is already tomorrow. and i have deluded myself into believing he still thinks about me. and i will go to bed, and wake up at five. and i will lay in bed for another hour. today i will rot in bed. today i will know it was not for the better that they left. today is sunday, after all.
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he was a fire, and i was just a silly girl who learned to love the way he burned.
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how can you write poetry about a girl who is walking poetry?
how can you paint a girl who is walking art?
how can you write a song for a girl who is walking music?
how can you fall for a girl who is walking love?
the answer is easily.
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love has softened my sharp edges,
making me sweeter.
i went from wanting to destroy the world,
crush it like chalk in my hands,
to wanting to breathe in every summer
and let it linger.
love has made me more lovable,
the storms in my gray eyes
clearing to sunny skies.
i want eighteen to come quicker,
because then our home can be a possibility.
nothing loud, except for music
nothing cruel, except for poetry
a swing for us to sit on
and star gaze.
and when i point out leo,
she'd point out my scars
and tell me they were her favorite constellations.
so love has softened me,
and i think that's okay.
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"maybe i wasn't made to be loved. maybe i was made to write about a love i will never feel. maybe i was made to split an orange with someone while we watch the cars go by from the curb. maybe i was made to give them the bigger half. maybe i was made to be used. maybe i was made to make other girls feel better about themselves because "at least i don't look like her." maybe it's just better that i stop trying. maybe."
but oh, sweetheart, you were made to love. and that is enough. isn't it? seeing the love you hold in your heart is enough to make any sensible person cry. well, it's enough to make me cry.
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