Wilted Words

The little girl on the swing across from me looks a lot like me. With her unruly hair and crooked smile, She notices me watching and her smile only widens. I remember a time when our resemblance wasn't just physical, I remember a time when I skipped light as a feather instead of walking, constantly humming happy tunes, I remember a time when I was all smiles and vibrancy of existence.  When I look back at it I can't tell if it's real or a made up fragment of my memory. Because all I know is this reality,  Where my colors are faded, my outline is blurred I am a shadow of burned out flames. I had been the flames once.  Now my bones are made of steel they're too heavy to carry,  my spine is made of chalk there is always a chance that I'll snap in half, my skin is thin and doing a poor job of containing my insides I am always on the verge of spilling all over the place. The mayhem inside always on display.  my chest is a black box where you can see the truth ...

Time will freeze And those stolen hours will pass so swiftly like summer breeze, That, I am sure of, What I don't know is, does it always feel like this? You're holding my hands and they don't fit perfectly into yours, Our fingers aren't intertwined but it doesn't seem to matter, No one has ever held my hands before, that's what I want to say but instead I bite my lip and I kiss you, My clumsy hands roam freely on your body making an invisible trail on the map that is your skin, I want to memorize this path and go over it millions of times except that I have a poor sense of direction, and I get lost often, but I'll try not to lose my way.  The clouds covering the sky have somehow manged to cram inside my head, I can't seem to get enough, I have never knew how starved for affection I was up until this moment. The only thing that matters is the feeling of your arms around me, Strong and steady, My heart is anything but. Your patience i...

I no longer feel a thing. When I am with you, my body is heavy, my mind is blank. My heart only pumps blood and my feelings are no where to be found. It is not a horrible thing, really it isn't. Is the absence of love worse than overwhelming hatred? Is the engulfing darkness worse than the blinding white light? I am no longer myself but you wouldn't know, that itself is not such a bad thing either. I study my palms like they're someone else's. Trying to recognize the outlines and comprehend the shape of my fingerprints, I try to reread my eyes, maybe they'll give away glimpse of something, I am becoming a stranger to me, Detached of my own world, An outcast, locked outside and inside simultaneously, floating around, Only debris from my past form, Shedding my skin, An agonizing yet crucial transition, I have no control over this. But tomorrow, the sun will rise again, oblivious to my suffering, Tomorrow the moon will hang limply in the sky, bored a...

He is a story that I want to read, over and over until every word in engraved in my memory, he is a book with ripped out pages, with smudged ink in his folds and crossed out sentences. I desperately want my hand on his spine. I touch it gingerly, and I can sense that It is rigid and strong. Although, I can locate the cracks in it, and I can tell he is tired from holding up for that long.  My fingertips skim through his pages, and they're soft, so soft and thin and delicate like rose petals. they're softer than the words scribbled on the surface. Some of the pages are torn out, some of them have blurry writing, smudged sentences, illegible paragraphs that I cannot make out a single word of. As I read I start to see the reason behind his roughness. His guarded demeanor. I know that he is hoping that maybe someday someone will love him as he is,  that someone would see beyond the anger and the mess he's made of himself. I try to read between his lines and decipher him,...

The sentences we blurt out are unforgiving. Once they're out, they're out. You can't go back and revise them, proof read them, edit them, You can't replace a full stop with a question mark or put a comma, continuing your sentences instead of the already existing full stop. You can't clarify or elaborate. Your intended meaning was lost in the process of forming the words as they roll off your tongue, I know that when you say you love me you mean "this will make you happy, this is the reassurance you need so I am saying it" but it lacks conviction, I know that when you ask me if I slept well you want to know if I didn't stay up till dawn staring at my ceiling. And you halfheartedly want the real answer, I know when I ask you if you're okay you say you are good, even when good and the state you're in couldn't be more mismatched. I don't want you to think too much, And I don't want to dissect your paragraphs anymore, I don...

I know what is going to happen, It plays in my head Like a movie clip stuck on repeat,  I tell myself that I know what's going to happen before it does, With the smugness and pretentiousness of a fortune teller who is just good at reading people. I swear I know the exact arrangement of words you'll use, I can see the posture of your body as you stand across the room, creating as much space between us as possible, I can see the way your lips move as you say the sentence that will flip my world upside down like pancakes of a Sunday's breakfast. Despite that, I choose to tighten the blindfold around my eyes. I pretend I can't tell that the house is on fire. I pretend that I can't smell the smoke, that the heat from the flames isn't burning me,  I choose to ignore the crumbling building crashing down at my feet, I inhale the ashes until I fill my lungs.  Denial is my feeble shield against the cruelty of reality. Every time, I chose to ignore that silence...

I want to talk about my sadness. But my sadness is a rude distant relative that has no business in my house, yet insists on staying and interfering with every small detail of my life. My sadness is a predator that has claimed me as a prey, a malicious vicious killer that hunts for the fun of the chase, and when I finally landed in its clutches it toyed with me, tossing me around, yawning, bored at my lack of resistance. My sadness is the clique of girls who bullied me through elementary school, middle school, high school and when I run into them somewhere a few years later I greet them casually because I am a grown up and I am mature and I have put it all behind me, pretending they weren't one of the reasons I am mesirable. My sadness is a grave I dug with my bare hands in a cold hard ground of a wasteland to bury it but instead I fell into it, and got buried where there is no tombstone for recognition. My sadness is treacherous and cruel, sometimes it allows me to go about...