Prismatic Memories

the end : [glass prism girl]

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(A SHORT POETIC STORY ABOUT SADNESS, POETRY, LOVE, RECOVERY, HAPPINESS AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN)

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glass prism girl, kept in the darkness.

when she looks around, her eyes hurt. darkness blinds her, she's drowning, drowning, drowning, and no-one comes to save her. she screams, but no-one hears. she's not good enough, not good enough, not good enough. nothing good happens, ever. sadness settles down in her veins like liquid metal and the air she breathes becomes a sticky fog : she can't breathe- can't breathe, can't breathe, but the real horror is figuring out she has to. so she survives off the bare minimum. doesn't have hope in the future. the world is dark and dingy and bleak, and it's all she can do to keep herself from crying all the time. no one listens. no one cares- maybe at this point, not even herself. if i were to be hit by a car, she thinks, "i honestly wouldn't mind."

she cannot sleep, feels sick even when she's not sick. just wants to go to sleep and never wake up again. she's so goddamn tired all the damn time, and wishes she could just simply disappear. feels useless, feels like a waste of space, a burden, a mistake, a disappointment, feels everything and then nothing at all. sometimes she cannot tell the depression from the laziness and genuinely wonders if she's faking it. jokes about wanting to stop existing. the static in her brain never stops, and it certainly doesn't stop her from doing terrible, terrible things to herself. blood, pain. she spends days in bed because she can't bring herself to actually get up, and lets the guilt eat her alive afterwards.

she starts failing her classes and wishes she could die when she sees (and hears) the disappointment in the adults' faces. lazy kid. never tries. she has so much potential! what a rebel. sleeps her life through. wish we had another kid, i mean, if one turned out a failure, at least we could have counted on the other! your child never completes her assignments. she doesn't try in class. mental illness is not real, and you're too young to have it. stop using excuses for not trying! people who actually have mental illnesses don't talk about it. despite all this, they love her and it makes her sick to the stomach because she knows she doesn't deserve their love, she doesn't deserve this, she deserves absolutely none of this.

she isn't loved, isn't beautiful, doesn't even believe in herself. of course, she was fire, but now all that's left of her is ashes and dust and the debris of what she used to be. she gives up every other second and cries when then damage doesn't stop. feels lonely and sad and ugly and annoying. cries when she wakes up. cries herself to sleep. cries on the way home. everything is gloomy, and she, glass girl, breaks too easily. she doesn't forgive herself, doesn't have control over her emotions, her life, her attitude. she's fragile - the slightest of words said about her crack her open. she's forgotten how to dream, and when she looks in the mirror, she sees nothing but hurt and heartbreak splattered all over.

but that's when she finds the poetry.

it's dark and haunting and beautiful and everything she's going through. she sees the poet and sees herself in them. the poet is human. the poet is a young female, just like her. and so are all of her followers. and she realizes they're all hurting. for a while she clings onto the poet- and it hits her. the poet was shady and unlit and depressed and hurting, but she had feelings that made thousands of souls resonate with her. she wrote about the idea of light. fantasized about being someone bright. helped them understand their own pain. made them feel less alone. helped them name their demons so that it'd be easier to fight them. the poetry becomes her lifeguard and clings to it till she finds her own breath again. she observes the poet, worships the poet, and after a while, she becomes the poet.