writingmysinsaway

[writingmysinsaway]

Colorblind

We were standing in front of the traffic lights and when they turned green, you told me they were red.

At first I thought you were joking but you were adamant that they were red.

I kept insisting that they were green and you kept acting self-assured.

You made me feel smaller as my frustration began to grow.

How could you not see that they were green?

My frustration morphed into self doubt as it went on and you even laughed at me, pretending like I was the one who was being ridiculous.

Maybe they were not green after all?

The day you convinced me the traffic lights were red, was the day you convinced me I was colorblind.

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[writingmysinsaway]

The creator

The rush, I can feel it running through my veins

The world beneath my fingertips as I create

I can feel the universe expand

Time is not linear and for once I understand

I did not choose this path, it chose me

I never looked for it, I found it blindly

It is natural like it is to breathe

Something inside of me that craves to be released

And yet, something is wrong

I know,

Everything I touch needs to turn to gold

What value does my craft hold if not every line is perfect, every brush stroke?

Even through a magnifying glass, the details need to be just right

Perfection is unobtainable, not easy to define

Even God wiped out His creation with a flood

Riddled with flaws, set it back, restart

I create until my hands feel numb

The familiar routine

The feeling of filling the cup up only halfway

The stutter in the middle of a sentence

The dissonance in an orchestra play

The one mistake when you draw outside the lines of a coloring book

Do it again,

Do it again,

Do it again,

...

The need for it to be more than it is

Now it is too big, the need for it to be less

The need for it to be perfect

And there it is, the validation

That's what I wanted, the recognition

But is it?

It feels good, temporarily

For it to be seen the way I wanted it to be perceived

And now

I'm filling the cup,

I don't stutter,

There is no dissonance in the symphony,

No color outside of the lines in the coloring book

But it never lasts

The cycle repeats itself

The familiar routine

I go back to not filling the cup,

The stuttering,

The dissonance,

The color outside the lines

Perhaps I am the problem?

I look within and I see a reflection of my craft

I see lack

Finally I realize

I never craved the validation from others

Only my own will erase the feeling of lack

And I also realize

The space in the cup leaves room for a journey

The stuttering means I have something important to say

The dissonance can create tension and is what makes the release satisfying

The color outside the lines turns into little drawings that turn the image into my own

I think to myself

Maybe I can find beauty in the flaws

Maybe what I create is enough.

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[writingmysinsaway]

Homeless

"I put a roof over your head" - but you never made it feel like a home.

You are blinded by selfishness, your carelessness, the house is overgrown.

A home needs care, a home needs to feel safe.

The danger is sitting at the same dinner table and I am reading its face.

I am scared.

Scared to slip up, make a wrong move, take a wrong step.

I am reading your face to know how to act.

Do I need to brace myself, do I hold my breath?

This house is not a home because with me lives the threat.

I read your face.

I brace myself.

I hold my breath.

Love makes a place a home.

Your love tastes bitter, like obligations you frown upon.

Your love feels like hard work, unobtainable, a currency I need to earn.

Your love is conditional, the need for it a curse.

The house you have built, the chaos left it in ruins.

The foundation is unstable,

It always was.

Mom,

You never learnt to,

Are you able to love?

Mom, in you I see the same restlessness.

Mom, just like you, I am homeless.

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[writingmysinsaway]

It didn't happen

"It didn't happen", they say as if my years of torment are a figment of my imagination, as if the deep scars it left on my mind do not have a cause, as if the version of me that emerged from the pain didn't rise from the ashes of the old me and how I miss the old me because-

-because the old me could speak freely without stutters, her soul stayed in her body while mine temporarily leaves and I forget- I forget the last seconds, the last days, the last weeks, the last months, I forget time itself and it's passing like a river. Sometimes the current is strong and sometimes it's not and I'm getting pulled with it, never really being aware.

"It didn't happen", they say and they can walk away but I cannot because I cannot walk away from me, this new version of myself I have to live with but don't truly know, like a stranger whose flaws and personality I have to get to know all over again. I have been losing parts of me and gaining new ones.

"It didn't happen."

The newfound intensity of my emotions takes me down the rabbit hole, dragging me down to lows I have never experienced before, to a place where I am scared of myself for myself.

"It didn't happen."

My anxiety has been fed with each incident and it has been growing bigger, now it is so big that it clouds my intuition. My anxiety tries to act like a clairvoyant but really my anxiety is not and is trying to protect me from the worst outcome possible by preparing me for it and yet it damages me more than it does protect because I lack control in those scenarios.

"It didn't happen."

It has altered the way I view people and I am not sure if the new me could ever trust like the old me again. I've been stripped off the innocence and naivety that looks past the darkness just to find a speck of light in someone. Now I'm looking for the darkness in a person instead to not let it seep through me, because I know that the pretty is hiding the ugly underneath.

I also know that their darkness will make me relive the darkness of those I have already escaped.

"It didn't happen."

And for them it never happened. But for me it happened, it is happening and it will happen.

I am forced to relive and experience the past in the present and in the future, involuntarily time traveling as it comes back to haunt me, reminders of it hiding behind every corner.

"It didn't happen" as if the aftermath of it does not exist, as if my brain chemistry is not altered and not only do they refuse to acknowledge the victim but they refuse to acknowledge the crime. They refuse to acknowledge my reality which they seem to think can be bent or altered and I wish they were right so I could erase those parts myself; I wish I could.

"It didn't happen."

I wish it was that easy to change the narrative, but it's written and printed, a part of my book.

Even if you tear the page out, it would only create gaps but the plot that follows stays the same.

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[writingmysinsaway]

Mother

I was connected to you through an umbilical chord and now there seems to be an invisible one.

No matter how hard I try to cut you off I recognise you, deeply wired in my brain and in my genes.I recognise you in the people around me and within myself.

Maybe a little in how I treat others but mostly I recognise you in how I treat myself.

It turns out that I haven't only been trying to be good enough for you but I have been trying to be good enough for me.

Tere is this feeling of lack you have imbedded in me, deeply rooted in my consciousness, asking for more, demanding for more like an insatiable beast within me which roars at me with your voice.

Your standards for me are the ones I'm upholding for myself and when I speak or think, the words are not enough.

I create mazes with my words, sometimes I get lost in them - I try to go in depth, so deep as if I'm trying to reach the bottom of the ocean with my words, in fear of being misunderstood or not being heard - but it's still not enough.

There is a little girl living with the beast inside me and no matter how much she begs me for comfort, the beast manages to silence her with a voice so loud that the echo lingers for hours after.

When someone hurts us, I tell her to see things from the perspective of the one who hurt us. Instead of showing compassion towards ourselves, I force us to show compassion towards the ones who wrong us and point out their wounds as if those are excuses for them to pour salt in ours - just like you have taught me.

I see the lack in our very being and in everything we touch, as if our hands are not capable of doing good enough - as if we are forever destined to live up to expectations we can never reach - as if we are competing against ourselves and yet we still manage to lose because we are always running but never crossing the finish line.

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[writingmysinsaway]

Tell me how it feels to know you did wrong

When you smell like his cologne while we're dancing to our song

Tell me how it feels to gently touch my skin

When we both know you still think about touching his

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[writingmysinsaway]

I know your fingerprints, I know it's you

I am all my lovers, the past and new

I lost some, I gained some, I'm yellow and blue

I got scars, I am healed, I am bruised

How beautiful, but is it?

I am all the love you ever gave

I am the ugly and all the hate

I am the embodiment of all my mistakes

I am not there but a thought away

I need someone and I need to feel needed

How complex it is to be a human being

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[writingmysinsaway]

All this pressure makes me crumble

Let me rearrange what's left

Tiny pieces, a mosaic puzzle

I'm still whole but not the same

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[writingmysinsaway]

I sometimes think ignoring my feelings will help them pass

But they are being held down, ready to burst

I build a stronger surface so that they can't get through

Then someone comes along and breaks down the layers of the surface I have built and all those feelings underneath start to flow out

As if they shook a soda bottle before opening it

And now it's overflowing

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[writingmysinsaway]

Passion burns within

A fire that never extinguishes

Sometimes the flame gets a little weaker

But it never burns out

This is why I'm living

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[writingmysinsaway]

He thinks he is in love with her

With the way she moves

The way she talks

The way she looks

The way she walks

She makes him feel so good

It's addicting

Exhilarating

But he is only in love with the version of her that he created

And there lies the difference

Between love and obsession

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