I have always felt loved. I have always felt cared for. But loved as a group of things. The same as one loves a dish set, one piece is lacklustre without the others. I find myself hoping there will be a day when they don't quite accept me as I am, and say that if that's what I want then that's fine. I know this may seem odd to anybody else, and in many ways I have never been accepted but more assimilated, smoothed down like a rock weary from the tide, once full of cracks and oddities, claimed by the sea as one of its treasures, stowed away in its depths. My features have become smeared and vague to them. I used to think I always had a strong sense of identity, but as I have grown more self aware and accustomed to the world, even as young as I am, I have realized that everything I once wanted and strove for was just a desperate plea to please them, to look good on paper, a proud anecdote in conversation, a pretty picture on the mantel. Though she never put pictures of me up anyways. You've never hurt me, at least not in the ways I'm conscious of– you only ever hurt me when I need to remember my place– remarkable unremarkable, just another smooth rock in the sand waiting for the sea to wash it out once more until all it's ridges have become a memory fondly resonated in dreams –of what could be, of what I could've been. C'est la vie, et la vie est belle et trop brutale, heureuse ou pas, la mer vient pour nous tous.
- Love Eli, P.S sorry my french is not the greatest but I had a whim to write in french again ;)
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Cracks In The Concrete
PoesíaThis book is the progress I make over the years trying to detangle years of childhood trauma and mental issue's. To anyone else it may seem completely incomprehensible but that's okay. I write for the reason all writers write, paper is a better lis...
