"What's the bravest thing you've done?" they ask, expecting an adventurous answer.
I pause, a million thoughts dragging me away from reality in my mind.
I then say, "Nothing," and watch their faces fall in disappointment.
But in my scrambled head, I imagine saying the truth:
"Live."
Live life that felt like a lie.
Cold, shallow, empty.
I often question why I don't end it — staring up at my ceiling, my thoughts blinding my eyes.
Why do I force an unwilling heart to beat?
Why do I ignore a mind that tells me to halt its agonizing thoughts?
Why do I live with the emptied, dark parts of me?
Is it because I fear my mother having to bury her daughter?
Is it because it would disappoint my lord?
Or is it because there's still a small, lingering part of me that hopefully chants, "It'll get better."
Maybe it's all of them.
Maybe it's just my cowardice.
Or is it bravery?
And maybe death isn't the bravest thing to face.
Maybe the digging of your nails into your palm when all you want is to draw blood is the bravest.
Or maybe it's snoozing your alarms knowing you'd be yelled at for giving your mind a break without flinching, even though those meaningless words that were spewed by anger went straight to your already rabid mind.
Maybe it's losing yourself but never letting go of your mind.
I wonder, would they still think climbing a height with your hair whipping behind you is the bravest of all after they see me walking away from the ledge I wished to climb.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts for the Eye
PoetryThoughts I wrote down, maybe they'll give you some comfort? "But I feel something deeper. Beneath the fear, there is a fire inside of me, one I cannot extinguish. It burns with the pain and the rage of all the women who came before me. " PS. If...
