Hysterical letters to my sanity

✮ keep your secrets

there is a reason behind shy eyes and secretive glances—reasons for mocking grins and gentle resistance. It lies partly in the way your friends eyes hold something corrupt. As if they know some dirty secret about me, as if they hold all the power just by hearing my name, I am now lost to the carnage within their minds.
I hold no authority over the way they bend their thoughts, forming faces and maniacal mirages of my body. They sneer and chuckle behind closed fists and shadows. There is something sinister in being a girl and then being a woman.
Not that being a woman then a girl would be any easier, rather there is something priceless in femininity, when you are young you are flaunted for your long eyelashes and beautiful curls, as you grow your father tells you that those eyes will be the death of many men.
You wonder if he dies every time he sees your mothers.
When you bat your eyes at the cashier so he sells you a lighter even though you're fourteen, well that's just your feminine wiles darling.
When your boss asks how much you want it, how much you're willing to give for it? That's when you wonder if female astronauts have ever marvelled at Venus and seen her for the Goddess they wrote myths about, who started wars and knew perhaps love and death were the only certain pair in eternity.
Then you go home and feel bitter sea water fill up your lungs and spill out your throat. Agonizing but aseptic, like a deep cleanse you might have needed.
I wouldn't know if it gets easier because I am still young and have many more stories to write, I do know though that love and death are two things of certainty, and I say that without the harsh tug of melancholy or despair, but with almost a smile— in a world of coincidences, fate, astrology, divine timing, there is still the promise of love and peaceful rest.