December: A Mind, Off The Rails

 

It feels as if someone pocked me with a sewing needle, and all of my soul is seeping out. 

This is the closest I got to being a machine; if this is adulthood, please let me jump from the train of life.

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I know now that all I needed during the moments I was lost was to walk away or take a step back and then take a look, just a look. Then I will see and understand that things are crueler without the safety of distance. Distance is armor. There is bravery that often goes without praise in remaining in your place. 

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I need answers to questions I’m yet to know how to ask. I’m severely confused by things but uninterested in them enough to wonder. I believe things are what they are, but that doesn’t mean I will grant myself the peace of accepting them. 

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I think about them from time to time. The woods growing in my mind, and the rivers running in my vines. I know I will miss this place with my right foot out the door, but I cannot wait to get out of here.

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I need a safe space where I can practice my insanity. A place I can shout colors into the walls and sit still in silence, waiting for things to change. I’m always waiting for them to change.

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I am not kind; I’m just being polite. I don’t love you; I’m just polite. I’m scared I will die before I do anything, not out of politeness. 

I worry that none of my love is real, that I don’t know what else to do. I just love people back. 

As we reach the last steps of December, it fades bit by bit. Until it’s nothing but the ghost of a whole year.

 

This gloomy feeling overtakes everything else sometimes; this feels like my life is happening in one room while I’m stuck in another, hearing the muffled noise of my life. 

 

I’m a smart girl, and I know I won’t disappoint myself; it’s other people that I worry about.

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Like plants, we all start with green, fresh leaves and fragile twigs. All the same. 

And then we bloom into colors, yellow, white, blue, and pink. All of us have different colors and shapes. Some grow poisonous, and some grow to be healing magic. The fruits of our flowers are also not the same, some are bitter, and some are honey-sweet.

Nonetheless, we are all rooted in the heart of the earth. I bet our roots, who do not see daylight, are holding on to one another to keep each other safe throughout their lives in darkness.

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What’s a body without bruises, scars, and tan lines? 

A body that hasn’t been worn out and hasn’t been lived in, 

Never been touched by life’s sticky and colorful fingers.