Rian; wasting breath chasing dandelion clocks in a subtle breeze, marching behind white wraiths to nowhere and back. Dreams caress her.
This is an open letter for you. An open letter wherein I apologize for being such a bitch. I keep on telling that I don’t demand anything from you and yet I keep on expecting and being disappointed later on about something you didn’t do, something that I want you to do but didn’t tell you. See, that’s my problem. I always keep mostly everything to myself. I’m a very hard person to deal with. I have walls and trust issues. My mind is a jungle full of doubts. And I never stop overthinking. That’s why I’m saying sorry. I never do anything right and I always screw up. I’m clumsy when it comes to everything and that’s why I have too many scars on my skin. I regret most of the things I do but loving you is not part of them. I think that’s the only thing I did that I’m thankful for- no matter how many times I cried myself to sleep when we fight. You taught me a lot of things about myself. You made me realize that I can fall in love. And you also made me realize how despicable I truly am. I apologize for the words I’ve said. They were all true but I didn’t mean to hurt you with them. That’s why I’m apologizing. I hope you’re not thinking you’ve had enough with this. I hope you’re not going to give up. I hope you’re not going to leave just like everybody else. I know everyone leaves at the end but please don’t.
I’m sorry.
It makes you say a torrent of angry words you have really no intention of saying out loud, washing everybody up with your angry tide. It makes you want to hurt someone physically, as if verbal abuse isn’t enough- and why would it be enough? Bruises don’t show no matter how hard you hit someone with your words. It makes you think how dreadful life really is and how tiring it must be to live in a world that doesn’t have hope anymore every single day. It makes you want to cry a fucking river and rip up your face into shreds and throw a table, a chair, a person and the whole fucking world for that matter. It makes your chest balloon up with all the rampant emotions you are feeling. It makes you look and sound like the person you hate.
Or-
It makes you sew your lips shut. It makes you distance yourself from people. It makes you build up feelings inside you and repress it all down so as to not do anything you wouldn’t really like. It makes you pour all your emotions in a bottle and throw it into the ocean. Or sometimes. It makes you pour everything into a blog. It makes you do anything than to speak up and let everything out.
But you know what they say: You have to let it all out or else you’re going to blow up.
Thank you for this. :)
When I was a little girl my mother fed me her dreams one spoonful at a time. I didn’t have the heart to refuse her so I swallowed back the “no” that was threatening to climb its way up to my lips and pursued the dreams she spoon-fed me with. Now I threw them up when she’s not looking. My index finger is the proof.
When I was a little girl the only music you could hear in our house was classical music singing from the speakers. Soft melodies waking me up with sweet whispers, my skin basking in the beautiful lyrics. Now it’s words thrown back and forth, shouts blaring from different mouths. My ringing ears are the proof.
When I was a little girl my body was neon bluepinkgreenorange Sharpie flowers and Crayola-written words. Acrylic paint dripped from my fingers and ink smudged my face. Now it’s scars and bruises and love bites, insignias reminding me of what and who I am now. My sweater-covered wrists and jean-clad legs and thighs and hips are the proof.
When I was a little girl cotton candy clouds, blowing bubbles, and dandelion clocks took up the real estate of my mind. My soft hands built doll houses and having trust was as easy as reading your ABCs. Now it’s insecurities and you will never be good enough and the only thing my hands ever build are sandcastles of trusts that will never last. My rain-filled eyes are the proof.
When I was a little girl, the world was mine trapped between my fingers. Now it’s me trapped between the bleeding cracks of the world. No one would let me out. My hands and feet decorated with rusting chain are the proof.
I’ve wondered from time to time why I couldn’t write as good as my favorite writers do. I’ve envied the way they encapsulate a certain feeling with just a few sentences and I’ve tried writing like they do but I always tripped over my words. My periods always stopped me short and my parentheses enclosed me in their arms. My semicolons did not promise me that there will be more to come and my exclamation points did not soar high in the sky. But then I realized that maybe I wasn’t supposed to write like the writers I idolize do. Because I have my own temperament and they come out in my writings. I don’t have to write like them to be good at it, I just have to write like how I talk; sometimes tactless, other times senseless, but still bare and honest.
- I’ve learned that waiting for something becomes more bearable when you are sure that it’ll come, no matter how long it takes.
- Loving someone will be the best and the worst thing that will happen to you.
- Conversing with an intelligent person makes me want to pour his thoughts into a wine glass and slowly sip it while watching the sunset.
- You can know what a person really feels from the way he laughs.
- My thoughts are scattered bubbles that pop whenever I try to grasp it.
- No matter how many despicable people are out there, there will always be more with kind hearts and soft eyes and callused hands, you just have to look hard enough.
- When the moon decides to drip on your window, open it and watch the stars wink at you over the midnight sky.
- People will always disappoint you, no matter how hard you try not to expect anything from them.
- When the past arrives at your doorstep with heavy bags full of regrets and secrets at three a.m., slam the door on its face and lock your door.
- Everyone lies about who they really are.
This really made me smile. Thank you :)
