Goodbye has always left a bad taste in my mouth.
There's a sweeter taste in the breeze in these fine mornings, my room highlights the pleasure of the even sun that displays across my freshly washed bed sheets. Life consists of stress free, movie watching and sweet chilli dumplings that simmer at the Japanese restaurant I now work at. I talked to god last night and asked him of you, mom. I also dreamt, once again, of a first love - someone I would have assumed a few months ago I missed. I can't seem to grasp why I keep thinking of him. Maybe I missed the person I was with him, or maybe I miss the time I felt at a place of comfort. Maybe it's that I can't grasp why I was such an easy disposal, why my corners didn't hurt letting me go. I was sad. An opposing emotion to the ones I have now.
I went over a couple chapters of this... have you witnessed how utterly exhausting and saddening my shadows have become, my words. Truthfully I feel quite alone, very alone. I do not sing or dance anymore, nor do I look at my present as a gift, I treasure my future a lot because I hope for change. I hope this trapped feeling will escape at some point in my future - I will find people that make me like the person I am. I think after all of it; all the pain and discomfort, I have morally become silently depressed.
Don't get me wrong I have good days, but without a distraction I find myself captured in the concept of the dark. I used to love the taste of chocolate, and I used to love birthdays, I used to love the heat and the smell of fake tan. I miss the things I used to love, I miss the person who used to love them. I still love the colour white, the smell of bonfires and the way the stars light up the sky at night. Parts of me flicker within my presence but I am so different from my past. The people you meet, explore, pass by. I used to love the thickness of my thighs and the muscle in my arms. Now the bones in my wrists can't meet my watch and the skin can't be more than a finger width apart.
But
I love how my dad sings for me in the car on the way to the gym. I love how I get past a new mile and smile to myself, I love how I feel when I eat the food I love: how I love mango and spinach and pasta and chicken and chorizo. Even if it is a smaller portion than before. It'll fade I hope. This... this will fade, I hope. I don't feel my age, a wise man once told me you're only as old as you feel. Well, on Mondays I feel 11 and on Tuesdays I feel 22, on Fridays I feel 15 and Sundays I feel as old as the wise man who approached me.
I can see why people obsess over me, why too much is too little and too little is too much. I'm angelic and wicked, patronising and mature, honest and misleading. I'm acidic and rich of alkaline. Compulsive... beautiful and ugly, rich and poor. My heart is pretty but my brain is hysterical. I don't give consent to the thoughts in my head. I have hints of her; I take pride when being called a lookalike of my mother, she was alluring. Her heart was sketched with love, I love being associated to carrying her genes, her reflection. Because to me, she is a symbolic version of a black beauty. Her darkness was hidden, her pain, her hurt.
For generations of addiction, it stops here. I will carry her beauty, her heart but nothing more than that. I do not talk of her recent activities, only her past ones, the pretty images she mimicked through my life, the things she taught me. She hadn't learnt from her mistakes, I had. She brought me up drowning, airless.
She must have felt a bit of what I do now. She must have experienced the pain I drag myself through everyday. And how I hope she did. I hope the pain picked at her brain and fed from her guilt.
I hope it stung stronger than a hornets sting.
I hope it dug deeper than a blade.
I hope it hurt more than hell.
In my cot, sounds that rippled around my crib... she must have peered into my bed to see if I still lived. Counting my heartbeat by hers. How unusually fascinating I sit here, miles from her, 16 years on. Yet she may still hold her breath awaiting for mine to catch up with hers. While I feel at a float, breathing ever so slowly, oh so curious to hear if her Atlas of a heart still pumps, even after this heart attack.
Now I close every door, open every window. Willowing for a potential scent of lavender, or a warmth as she touches the breeze. I want to hear her in the trees, feel her on the path.
I think I saw her the other day. It felt like I'd dreamt her, her hair mixed in a mess of auburn and hazel swirls upon her head. Her eyes narrowing towards the lens of her phone, her voice pleading for Emily not to ignore her. I heard her whimper. Her words engrave in the walls of my head, they build more bridges and somewhat brought a strike of weakness to my knees. Unfortunately, she still holds that power over me.
Friday
I have been uplifted, a little lightened. My nerves have quietened, my dreams still alive. Similarly to my heart. I'm reluctant to his orders. Quite frankly, I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to love. I see a glimpse of a timeline I planned out, the characters I thought would stay have now left, but those around me aren't characters I ever thought I'd meet. Different personalities, each representing a colour which differs to mine. Let me tell you about one of them.
This character is a robin egg blue, a mix of shamrock green. Yet his eyes show great strength in the deep denim of blue. This part makes me feel safe, I could pin this to his hands, that make me feel alive. He does not run. His mind embraces his femininity, he's a talker. He has communication and recognition. I love his voice, his many voices he displays to entertain me, but my favourite is his own. His smile I have mentioned many times before, but it is as addictive as speaking of it. He displays a forest, trees bricked high opposing to my cropless fields that stretch for miles. He was taught to be the embodiment of sanctuary comparable to an Atlantis of his flaws. A city of fire remained in mine, for I am unhappy with the gold offered.
At times his eyes widened, narrowed, flared with anger. Nothing to make me scared or at a danger of his presence. Yet, I picked at his world. I played with his greenery. Of all I didn't want this luxury he had made for me. Running through his world made me discover parts of me. His hells that melt beneath the soil that rooted the trees, likewise to his greenery that uplifted the tears I cried. Our skies joined, they laced colours. Out came a rouge kind of red. That was the colour that formed in the skies; his and mine. Following a devil like orange, a beautiful baby blue and a hint of pink displayed in the corners. In all honesty his love brought all the colours out of me, red shone the brightest. He was a fool, and so was I.
I need to get out of my head...
I'm going to go make pasta.
