scared sheep

I flaunt a shallow mind because the depths of my soul have been humiliated. I’m sarcastic because no one takes me seriously or vice versa. I scream “I’m strong” because I feel broken. I crave quiet nights in more than hectic nights out simply because I feel alone either away.

This world is crammed with colorblind sheep, with people all working toward a similar goal and yet clawing at each other to get there first. I play my part but dread every second. I find myself defending why I see color more than relating to individuals who want a change.

I see the ugly, I feel it in my bones. and yet all of you refuse to acknowledge it. you throw blame and fault at individuals pleading for help, who see a darker shade of gray. you abide by all of the rules and expect others to do the same despite the difference in resources and accessibility.

I wake up everyday embarrassed of the nation and the world in which we live, scared of the people I surround myself with. and yet, I abide by the rules. I play the game. I baa right back.

I’m frightened, I’m bored, I’m searching for a way to thrive in this fleece flavored world. I play a little differently, with a little bit more sass and spice. my relationship with this world and the people in it is that of a toxic affair. some days it are my weaknesses that do not live up to the needs of others and sometimes it is the way of the world that puts me at my lowest point. we give and take, we try to change one another. I am left to fight my way through this world- through the fear, through the boredom. just another sheep but with access to the colors of the world- access to a different visual, a different dream.

so many questions

and yet somehow, despite everything you have ever put me through, despite the way my stomach drops when I see you and the anxiety I feel when I hear your name I want to know what makes you tick. I want to know at what point in our relationship did your heart change courses from strong and passionate to weak and cowardly. I want to know who you are now and if those horrifying things that made me run away are still applicable to your life. are you hurting all these other girls the same way you hurt me or did you learn your lesson? did seeing my pain influence the way you treat people or do you write it off as a weakness of mine? do you watch that sex video over and over again and recognize the vulnerability in my love for you? or do you still use it as a source of power for yourself to get you off every night? when that police officer called you and told you that you were about to be charged for stalking and harassment, what made you want to come to my front door an hour later? when your roommates told you that an officer came to your door to hand you a restraining order, what went through your mind? did it ever cross your mind that I was horrified to come home and see you standing at my door? That I avoided certain places for months to avoid you. I stopped coming home without Jake being there. My life flipped upside down that Saturday morning that you couldn’t sleep and texted me instead. has that ever crossed your mind? or am I just another person on your hit list? despite it all, I have so many questions to ask you and if I ever get the chance aka the courage, I might just go for it.

reread

I reread your emails almost daily. the way you nonchalantly consider a friendship, the way you claimed to have forgiven me for my sins and expect a free pass for yours. I analyze the way the first line is filled with rage, hate, and anger but the second line is full of love and compassion. representative of so many times when the words were spoken instead of written. the way you expressed so much anger and hate toward my lifestyle, my friends, my passions but then showed me so much love and care and grace. its almost like I reread them out of nostalgia. like I’m seeking comfort in what I already know and have experienced before. as if there is some kind of home in knowing how the story ends so I keep replaying it no matter how ugly the contents are.

stagnant.

healing.

a fucking joke.

I am breaking. my bones, my heart strings, my pride, my dignity, my self-respect. broken.

Healing requires one to stop playing with old wounds. for the echoes to stop. Healing requires steps forward. Healing requires  change.

I have plateaud. Stood still. Call it shock, call it fear, call it lack of motivation. Call it whatever the fuck you want but my feet are in the same exact position they were six months ago. Facing in the right direction but cemented down.

healing. maybe. if healing was stagnant of fearful.

I would rather things be ugly-busy- hard. I would rather be breaking dishes and kicking down doors, crying, screaming, pleading for help.

but I’m standing still.

poking my old wounds.

 

Deflating synapses.

the day I start talking about the stitching on my purse, or the wind on my brittle bones, or the way my grandchildren are so disrespectful toward god-given morals- place me in a padded room. Hand me a book or two and put me in front of a mountain view. Remind me that life is full of so many beautiful challenges and small talk is for those who are weak and whose mind is deflating. Read me a poem about the weight of the world or one of my own. Even when I am eighty years old, the world will have so much to teach me that I would regret talking about anything less than the beauty of emotion, waves crashing or laughter. Please, never allow material things and everyday happenings or small talk to become what I fill my voided days with. I do not deserve a deflated life nor do I deserve the last thing I talk about to be whether or not I had velcro on my satchel. Push me cognitively until my synapses are no longer connecting. An entire life experienced and yet the only thing to consider is nail polish color. No thank you. I want to be inspired till the day I die.

“Hi brenna”

A greeting- casual in fact. Two words that insinuate some kind of mutual exchange of friendliness. As if waiting for a response. Two words that come off as innocent, empty almost. As if somehow implying a lack of history. As my stomach dropped, my head became fuzzy, and my feet walked themselves out the door- those words echoed after me. But rather than empty, they were cold, full of resentment, anger, fear, history. It’s been six months of healing, of looking at the person growing in the mirror and becoming more and more confident, of everyday thinking about you less and less. And then with two words, and a glimpse of your snapback- you destroy that. You bring me back to a place of vulnerability- of hatred- of dependence. With two, empty words you bring me back to a place void of nothing but rather a place where every single emotion rushes through my bloodstream like poison.

They say when a snake bites you- you have to suck the poison out so the body can start healing itself rather than circulating the danger around the heart. Funny- how the animal kingdom is so applicable to the emotional damage we put ourselves through. I’ve sucked the poison out before- nearly drowned myself trying to prevent it from circulating my heart vessel.

Your bark has always been worse than your bite- it was your words that broke my bones rather than the sticks and stones you threw. But this time- you did both with two simple words. Once again inflicting your danger into my bloodstream-leaving me to save myself from a paralyzingly, slow death.

“She” -Lang Leav

She was the sound of glass shattering- the sharp ringing in your ears. The perpetual motion of a spinning ballerina trapped inside a music box. The sad, tiny tune of of La Vie en rose.

She was the zig-zag in your straight line. The absence in your direction. She was every turn you took when racing through a hedge maze, against the setting sun.

She was the tide that came in and out, like the breath of the wounded. She was the blood that flowed between heart and head.

She was the book that was not written. The sentence that was not scripted. She was the word you wished you could have said.