Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I. Unknown II. Edward Munch III. Victoria Hannan IV. Mary Oliver. V. Unknown VI. C.C Aurel VII. Faye Wei Wei VIII. Joan Macleod IX. Unknown X. Stephen King XI. Dorothy Strachey
⚔︎
"DEAR N̶O̶B̶O̶D̶Y̶..."
"I'm tired of running out of burning houses. I'm tired of flipping the pages of my own chapters especially with nowhere to hold me. To pray for an angel at the end of the day, even that was a lot to ask for. To have your name spoken in soft syllables without having to ask for it. I was used to the yelling. To the war. The thrill of it until I looked back down on my hands. I was tired of bodying this. Who? This. Whoever the second me was, whoever they decided was a perfect suit for their eyes while gently painting me in glitter and bird feathers,"
She was close to ribbing the sheet of paper to shreds.
"They leave you on display. They open up your wounds and you, each time, so badly wish you could crawl out of your skin when they did. I've tried explaining this to myself, multiple times. I didn't get it. Until they forced me to. Tore me open in front of my loved ones. I cried for them afterwards, it became exhausting eventually. I was still painted in feathers, why couldn't they see that? Tore a wing off myself and yet they still asked me questions I knew I would leave to mold off unto the ground. I didn't want them to look at me any differently, I didn't want to scrub off more red soaked unto the front of my cloth. I didn't want them asking me about it. More questions and less answers. Driven to madness,"
She debated on writing more. To watch a bird fall.
"Maybe one day I would drown. Not in a sea. But there would be water and laughter. What you would hear at the dining table while you were too busy sewing your skin shut. Make it pretty and make it quick. Like a breath down your neck, a hand to push you forward. Someone was always watching. It didn't matter when, I was not a child any longer. A minor for their little games of fetch and catch. So many games there was to choose from, but one in particular — Bring back the mouse and make sure it's still alive when you do, just a slight hitch in it's breath and we'll make you a deal. Make it stay alive, it doesn't have to suffer, you shouldn't allow it. Not now, not ever. Do not make me regret it, do not let me think about it, do not tell me about it, do not remind me of it, and do not let me hear it be a topic of any conversation,"
