Honesty... what a confusing theory. We preach honesty from such a young age, our elders laying the boundaries of good deeds, honesty being a main factor. The underlying factor of being a "good" person... so they say. The tooth fairy disagrees, so does Santa clause. The pages stacked upon pages of named lies, called fairy tales. Yet, honesty is supposed to be a main factor of being angelic. Does that make adulthood a lie? Is our future in the hands of villains? Lying is easy may I add. It makes anything and everything more exciting. Honesty hurts; a poison that threatens our society. Threatens or heals? Maybe if we were honest as adults, growing up wouldn't be as scary as we may think, but maybe as adults we can't confess as much as we can as children. Maybe the truth is seen as a criticism, or even a metallic way of feedback. Or maybe adulthood is wonderful. Maybe growing up to be an astronaut or a paediatrician isn't so impossible, maybe our mental growth is positive. Maybe I could change "maybe" to what if. What if adulthood was the healing of the inner child, what if adulthood is the freedom to access places unheard of as an independent individual. What if adulthood is about finding the core of what sets off adrenaline, not about settling down and working until you're too old to endure in this escape we call retirement. What if adulthood is the escape. The escape of past trauma, or the ability to do how we please, when we please, with whom we please. What if we take advantage of how our bodies move, now fully grown with no restrictions. What if we are less mindful... less aesthetically pleasing... what if we are messy and wonderful and what if... what if we were honest. Just like the very small child in us... honest with life, what if we were truthful to our youth as well as our aging about the linear fact; tomorrow isn't guaranteed.
June
It's been a couple months, a couple more dates. days. hours... and exaggerated seconds since I last updated. I am currently in a fiery relationship with a boy I value a lot.
Yet I'm confused whether it's what I really want. My relationship is so imperfectly perfect it's guilty. It's violently rigged. It's peaceful and painful. It's regrettable and forgiving. A thorn and a rose together are one but there's a reason they never touch...for if they were to touch it would no longer be considered a rose, it would lose it's petals, it would wither. They are one while being apart... I think of forbidden love in a similar dynamic.
I've gotten used to the bruising around my neck and you've gotten used to the piercings in your skin, although I'm still plucking your DNA from under my nails.
I've screamed your name.
From the top of my lungs into the thickness of the night just to get it out of my head, off of my tongue and from the back of my heart. The sad part of us; you are fearful to lose me and I almost want to face your fears.
My mind almost excludes his bad habits, bad deeds - utterly pinning me down with his eyes. Together we translate into bad habits and manipulation... but through all he is, everything he is, everything I want to be apart of it doesn't stop me. I find myself admiring him, capturing his essence, running my fingers through his hair and his thoughts - contradicting my own. But fuck how his smile plays games in my mind.
Everything I see beyond his small world. A part of me values my past, respects my past enough to contain how I feel and control the pain I have regained through these years of misery. He breaks me down a little, as if he were the solution to my acid; the fire to my ice. The rose to my thorns.
With me there isn't a mix. A healthy secure relationship? no. I am either completely and absolutely not interested or overly obsessed. Why be content when you can be addicted? I learnt of the best. Ain't that right mom?
What if it isn't good... or even worse, too good. All flowers come with stalks, only the prettiest grow thorns. He is so selfless and effortlessly fascinating. I feel helpless.
But when I see his face flicker in bed, it's as if I'm bait to his metal rod, I can't help but feel weak. Weaker than him. I know I wouldn't be able to fight back. The more we fuck the more his thrusts feel like fire in my thighs. It wasn't a pleasure I was used to. He began to feel like vinegar to my wounds. My nails would hack into his skin like wood. He would become unrecognisable. I didn't have the voice but I had the ability to draw fluid from my eyes, drive scratches down his skin. How could you not feel the slashes you'd placed in me. It was painful and it felt wrong but it became normal, it became a relationship, it became you and I... it is you and I.
Desire. I want a house. I want a house filled with sunlight that melts the glass covering the fine lines of the house, and the wooden beams that hold its greenery. I want a large layout of black metal finery and shaved carvings of oak, I want a large architecture overlooking remains of loaded trees and a fireplace big enough to heat the whole interior. I want water bleeding from the top of the house towards the outline of the oceans flesh. I admit I have somewhat of an idea of what I want out of life.
I want to not hate my body. My body dysmorphia to be a complete absence in my everyday life. I want to stop pretending. I want to love my arms, from the tips to the end of my nails, I want to love my legs, from my thighs to the outline of my hip dips. I want to love my hair; The way it curls under my neck and around my ears. I want to love my face as much as I used to. I want to cry, I want to cry like everybody else, I want to feel like everybody else. Overall, I don't want to see her in my reflection. I don't want to be reminded of my unwanted presence, to see her or his unknown identity in my mirror. Besides, I never knew him... my biological father. I have never known his lips, his hair, his eyes. So I just filled in what features weren't my mothers. My lips, my hair, my eyes. I sometimes ponder if that's really what happened, if her story's true and if his will remain closed.
I rarely think of the topic, I have no purpose for it but in cases I do find myself pondering in the darkness, I remind myself how loved I really am. I was adopted at three, by my dad, my best friend, my hero.
Adult or not, I guess we are all doing life for the very first time.
