Misconceptions of sorts

Letters Home

These days i prefer to write. I’m finding that no listens anymore; unless it’s a whisper, but sadly I have no secrets to share these days.

My friends tell me I am an open book, so it always a surprise how they often fail to understand me whenever I put them to the test.

My first missed concept. Sharing.

Growing up I felt the key to developing a true bond with someone was open communication – a trade. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine kinda trade.

This came from my openess and want of friendship, I wanted to know people, I wanted to unravel there mystery see who is behind the mask, the make up, who existed between the earphones, who lived beneath the Afro. What’s their story and how exactly could I relate.

So throughout high school I had a lot of friends, who were not…

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A Body of War

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These days I’m a little more lonely.

I’ve forgotten how to speak light into my life, I’ve forgotten how to marvel over the small things. I don’t count my breaths and say thanks anymore. My heart is full and it isn’t with the usual glee and gratitude I felt at 21 or 22.

I often find myself falling asleep to the noise between my ears, getting lost in the crowded space of my mind until I am too exhausted to listen. That is how I fall asleep at nights. I stumble over my legs every morning and crawl to the mirror. I drag myself to the forefront of my mind and make my eyes see me. That is what “self-love” feels like these days. It is a constant trial and error, a dragging and beating my body into understanding and acceptance. It isn’t flowers and peaceful “aligning of chakras”. This path hasn’t just been about laying on itchy grass and looking up to the sky with smiles.

No.

It is war.

A constant bloody battle of skin, bone and the heavy stench of ugly thoughts behind flesh.

With every part of me that dies and rots in waiting for love to come, another part is born, crying at me, calling me mother, and begging me to love it hard, fast, long and right now. And it is hard…it is really hard. I struggle with it. I know how to smile too well and laugh too wide to give myself away in weakness. But I am the one dwelling behind all my closed doors, and in every single room, this little girl is fighting. Still fighting to love the thing that bleeds and brings her pain, still struggling to love the mind that goes too fast, too long, too hard, too much. I am still learning how to dwell inside my body, I am still learning how paint inside my skin and how to wear it around me comfortably and stitch it in style. It is a fight and it gets brutal and at times frighteningly ugly. But I am pulling through and trying to stay.

I am trying to stay, I am trying to stay.
My God… I am really trying.

Hi

I haven’t written in a while, mainly because of fear. Fear has been this ugly,nagging slime, clawing at the back of my throat, chasing my saliva the wrong way. It has devoured every hope that enters my mind and it has held my hands captive. Today I am not as brave as I would like to be, but today I am  brave enough to start again. This is me starting over for the millionth time, this is me, once again, trying to be “okay”.