Sincerely October

Melancholy and verbose

A sad chapter.

Hollow home
I unlock the front door to the home in my heart, I admire the wooden exterior and handcrafted furniture.
It's beautiful, isn't it? It's perfect, isn't it?
The walls are filled with paintings and photographs that show the happy life that I have lived.
I walk around the home in my heart, I admire the blue walls and colorful murals.
It's everything a home should be, until I open the door to my bedroom, the gray walls take my breath away.
It's somehow painfully empty yet spilling everywhere at the same time. It's both too much and not enough.
The clothes are all over the floor, what will you be today? The notebooks are filled with rambling entries and drawings of eyes and clouds. Traces of things half completed litter the surroundings. Black curtains block out any semblance of life.

Treehouse
When I was living through those awful nights I needed to go away for a while.
I would go into the tree house in my mind, I would leave my body for a while and watch from the corner of my bedroom as he raped me.
I needed to be something other than what I was, I needed that more than I needed air, I needed that or I wouldn't be able to wake up tomorrow morning.
This is what saved me, I believe that if it weren't for this I would have found myself under a headstone years ago, but picking up the pieces is exhausting.
I can't seem to put it all together in a way I can understand, I am constantly shrinking and denying the truth because it's too big for me to live with.
I want to live with this, I really do, but I don't know how to.
I don't know how to mend myself, I don't know how to heal my bruises.
The truth leaves me feeling broken. He damaged me in a way I will never be able to take back, I will never be the same.
I want to find a way to know this, to really accept this for what it is, but I am unsure how.
I don't need this anymore, I don't need this like I used to. Life is something I want to be a part of, things don't hurt like they used to, but I still find myself in the same places.

I mean it
I mean everything I write, my most prominent rule in my writing is to write honestly.
If the sun is warming every itch of my skin, if I have never been happier, if life has never been this beautiful, I write about it.
If the rain has been pouring for days, if the bleak cold never stops, if I have a deep sense of melancholy I write about it.
Even if it's not what I want to be true, even if it wasn't true yesterday, even if it contradicts what I wrote last night, I write it.
I hope that by always writing what is true I will find a deeper understanding of what it really is.