Lotuslands All Die (A Collection)

Pain Into Art (Unfinished)

To the girl who plasters on the crooked smile everyday at school, lying to friends, teachers--faculty and staff. To she, who used to cry in her crib when Daddy would hit Mommy. To the girl who now feels his fists on her jaw as a sacrifice to her mother's ear-piercing prayers. To the little girl who's a great actor and a people person, but cowers in fear when tall, male figures approach her. To the girl with the crooked smile, pinned at the edges to where they curl just enough for her never-ending façade to seem real even to herself.

You are worth more than a bruise and a curse. More than catcalls and unrealistic expectations. Equal to the women in porn, and equal to the disabled. Your life was a play: a tragic, Shakespearian play. Make it better by doing the one thing you're so good at: the crooked smile and the churning emotions. Act. Make your pain, anger, and suffering a comforting lullaby. Grab a script and never look back.

To the boy with the left-handed chicken scratch. The letters connecting and twirling in fashions most cannot decipher. To his way with words in his suicide note, never knowing he possessed such talent. To the boy who was cursed at and beat down. To the, "Being left-handed means you're a devil!" and the, "Being left-handed is a bad omen." To the vocabulary you owned that was so complex that no one asked you to speak anymore. To his talent in the applied arts that came naturally.

My boy, put down the suicide letter. Tear it to shreds; burn the letters character by character; leave it in the rain to shrivel up and die. Grab a new paper; write a story. Become an author, like the ones you used to adore as a child. Become one with the vocabulary that has been killing you slowly. Never wait for anyone.

To the non-binary creature with the ADHD. Your tapping toes, nodding head, and racing thoughts. To your naïve mother shoving pills down your throat in hopes to cleanse your true self and personality of demons that don't even exist. To your cries for help when you don't understand why you can't breathe, think, and play all at the same time. To your sobs that ring out when your parents lock you in your room: you are unable to run and express who you are deep inside.

Dry those tears, my love. Turn on a tune. Join a class. Dance. It was what you were made for! You were born not for sitting down for lectures but for moving and dancing! Learn to dance and learn to do it well! You think not through paper and pen. You think through your senses: you collect information in a different way than most, and that's what makes them scared of you. Run.

To the shattered girl with a knack for drawing. To the, "Maybe I still love you," and the, "Maybe not." To the girl drawing out the different ways to commit suicide, getting closer to choosing one for her final descent. To her love for math and geometry, being able to calculate the angles of her death: they must be perfectly in line. An OCD baby.

Become an architect. Something that encompasses both your love for drawing and complex math sequences. Keep everything straight; perfect. You will be in the same ilk as the famous artists.