I am held back by so many things, and you refuse to be held back by anything. You’ve always loved broken people, and at three a.m., when you told me you love me, your olive eyes saw all of who I am in my darkest glory.
You still think I’m worth it, and maybe, just maybe, that’s all I wanted to be.
I am not a gentle soul.
I forge hurricanes in my sleep, and fight with phantoms at 2 a.m. They attempt to pilfer blood from my veins, so when people find me in the morning, they are long gone. My eyelashes are tomb markers. They cast long shadows on the pallor of my face, and the mascara I wear will stain your pillows until you walk away. Please, don’t.
I am not nice.
I will write poems on your wrists. They will not be filled with metaphors. They will not be pleasant, or painless, or easy. But they will be real. They will be honest. They will be raw. There are corners in my eyes that have seen galaxies, and they refuse to kiss the ground until you leave. Please, don’t.
I am one of the many stars.
I will self destruct at dawn, and explode with stardust trailing in my wake. You can find scars on my ribs that look a lot like constellations. Yes, they will quiver at your touch. No, they will not hurt anymore. The dark skies told me I won’t find who I am until you let me spread my wings. Please, do.
Just because someone is smarter, kinder and more beautiful doesn’t mean you aren’t. The value by which we place ourselves is gauged by a society so flawed and undermining.
You are made with galaxies, and stardust linger in your veins. You are strong, and brave, and more than enough. You are the light. Shine brighter.
I converse with myself daily. In public. In private. In soft whispers. Out loud. There is no moment in time that I am not in some sort of mental argument with who I am. People tell me I look insane.
Yet, nothing sounds as a compliment to me as thinking that soliloquies are the act of a mind not reigned, and of a soul emancipated.
I am not an idea. I cannot be dissolved in a puddle of clashing opinions, pulled into a fray by sweeping tides of yes and no.
I am not the ink that bled onto your skin. I do not peel letters from my eyelashes, like the wishes and hopes spent on idyllic sunsets.
I am not an echo. I refuse to sink into the flow of apathy and disdain, travesties to the life we are supposed to live.
Do not find my worth in what you think I am. Do not cherish me for what I think I am. Do not treasure me for what you want me to be.
If you have to love me, love me for me.
You told me you were done with feeling.
You’re done feeling dejected, frustrated and distraught. You’re done feeling the warmth of his lips on your cold cheeks, and the scrawled post it notes on your fingertips, whispering for the letters of his name. You’re done feeling the outline of his body next to yours, and the almost physical presence of emptiness that accompanies his scent on your pillows.
You told me you were done with listening.
You’re done listening to the radio station that played loudly that night. You’re done listening to the silence between the seconds of every day, when you would rather be anything else than broken. You’re done listening to his voice in your head, telling you that life is what you make out of it and that you’re no longer part of his.
You told me you were done seeing.
You’re done seeing his face in every person you come across, waiting for infinite apologies. You’re done seeing his name written on the sky, like a gruesome reminder of what once was and what could never be again. You’re done seeing his shadows in the nooks and crannies of your apartment, clothing the pain of his deceit with the smiles of his memories.
You told me you were done lying, but the truth couldn’t set you free.
Seduce me with metaphors, all while whispering sweet similes on my left ear. Never comfort me with euphemisms, but swathe me in the solace that I can only find in the antithesis of your life’s adventures. Write your poems on my skin; your fingers skimming my rib cage and collar bones, as you bury their rhythm with your ink. Whisper prose with bated breath, and drink my scent with the desire kindling in your eyes. Make love to my words with your own, the union so mesmerizing, so awe-inspiring, so universally ours.
I want to escape.
I want to jump on a bus en route to everywhere with nothing but my earphones, my phone, twenty bucks and a day pass. I want to read a book and become someone else, and feel emotions that are mine but not quite.
I want to see the world.
I want to watch people who has no time and those with too much, and wonder whether they are happy or anxious or mad. I want to watch the sea blend into mountains, blend into roads, blend into deserts, blend into the palms of my hands.
I want to see beauty
In someone, or in something, or in everyone.
I want life.
And life said,”Live”.
Happiness is a state of mind. So I choose to be happy. I choose to smile, and sing out loud as I walk home. I choose to laugh at jokes, and find comfort in places where I thought there was none.
I choose happiness over anger, laughter over tears. I choose happiness because hey, it chose me.
Love is defined by neither habit nor obligation. You do what you do because you want to, not because you feel like you have to.
Ultimately, we choose the paths that our lives take. Circumstances may take us to crossroads, to dead ends, to cliffs. But the choice is ingrained in our hands, carved ever so softly that we forget they were there.
We can go left or right. We can turn back and start all over again, or choose to give up. We can jump off the cliff because it seems like all hope is lost, or we can stay still and wait for better options.
Sometimes, we forget that we have a choice. We forget that we were given life to live.
I push people away because it’s an easier choice than having to go through disappointments and frustrations over and over again. I build walls because it’s better to drown in my misery than burden someone else with them. I crave solitude because at least I can pretend that loneliness was an option I chose.
I don’t need compliments or mirrors, weighing scales or numbers to tell me my place. They quantify my worth, restricting who I am to the standards of the world.
In Your eyes, I an so much more than a face or a mind or a body. In Your love, I am so much more than my flaws and sins and mistakes. I am a soul filled to the brim with Your love and grace. I am a spirit longing for nothing but Your presence, echoing in my sleep, satiating my hunger and pervading in every single aspect of my life.
You saved me even when I gave up on salvation. I am Yours.
I was raised in the country, where crickets chirped their lullabies, trees danced to the twinkle of stars and fresh air played languorously everywhere.
But gossip was a haunting beast, the vast land was alienating and people are suffocating.
So I’m a city girl at heart, where traffic and pollution unleash atrocities in humankind, crime rates are higher than the number of trees and city lights drown out the stars.
Cities are my favorite places because in the middle of a crowd, you can be nobody. But in the warmth of someone’s arms, you are still, most importantly, loved.
I am not a Christian because I go to church. I’m a Christian because I am in a relationship with Christ; because I love and accept everyone in the same way Jesus loved and accepted me in spite of my flaws; because I love Him first and foremost.