Words

A Lovely Writer

You once asked me if I am a lovely writer. If I could fill a blank paper with words you would long to read. If I could make you fall in love with the heroine I created. If I could make you laugh and cry with the unpredictable plot I've written.

I just smiled at you, because if I answer yes, I'd be lying.

I am not a lovely writer. My mind is something I can't control. It whispers terrifying things that keep me up every night. It speaks about darkness; about everything not pretty; about pain; about nothingness; about silence; and about the demons that resides in my mind. I am not a lovely writer. Because heck, I admire destruction. My peace hunger for chaos. My love for hatred is unbearable.

I write to destroy.

My mind is a beautiful disaster that I make my own.

I nurture the darkness within me; thinking that I can manage it. It's so addicting. It devours me and I keep on embracing it.

But you... ever since you came; something within me makes me want to change. I suddenly want to be like you. Because you speak with roses and everything pretty. You smile with such blinding radiance. You light up my darkness with fireworks illuminating my insides with different colors.

And you... you saw through me. And even when you saw the true me, you held my hand and urged me to jump into the depths of my darkness. We held our breath as we dive through the unknown; through the darkness I hide within me. We ignored the burning sensation in our chest... because you didn't care. And, heck, I didn't mind because you are willing to save me from myself.

You want to save me. You want to fix me.

Because of your eagerness to stay even when you saw the ugliness in me, I started writing about light; about how we dive through the darkness together and how we survived it.

"You illuminated my darkness with your genuine light". I want that phrase to be carved in every corner of my mind for me to not forget what you've done for me. But I can't still grasp the beauty in it. And it's so frustrating. That is why I keep on writing about anything nice. I write about love. I write about you. I write about us... until the whispers in my head are silenced; until my chaos hungers for peace; until my hatred longs for love.

You.

You changed me...

But fireworks eventually fade. Roses wither. Bright colors hurt my eyes. And that's when I realized how temporary the feeling of happiness is. Because my happy is a cup without anything in it. You filled it up with variety of emotions. And, eventually, I become empty again. I realized how foolish I have been. I realized I can't write about beauty. I need an intense emotion for me to write. I need the desire to be in pain. I need pain. I need that surging hatred.

...I need darkness.

The darkness in me can take me to a place where I can visualize about almost anything without forcing myself. Because, honestly, I can't find comfort in light. It's making me feel exposed and frustrated. It's making me fabricate the truth. My truth. It's making me deceive people because I am afraid of not being able to make them feel the emotion they want to feel when reading my piece.

I'm really sorry.

I am not a lovely writer.

I write with blood.

I am not a lovely writer.

But still, you smiled at me, intertwined your fingers with mine, telling me I don't have to be a lovely writer for you to love me. I don't have to write about pretty things because no matter how dark my pieces are, you'd still read them.

I am not a lovely writer... but you. You are the scariest consequence that I have ever encountered. I tried to push you away because you are the complete opposite of me. But you are the type who never gives up on people. You speak with roses and smile the brightest. You give and give until there's nothing left in you. And you hide beneath a sun-like personality. But you let me see the true you.

I am not a lovely writer... but you. Everything I've written about you is breathtaking. Yes, it may be momentary but, because it's you, it will always remain as fragments of memory I wouldn't want to forget.

I am not a lovely writer... but to you, maybe I am.

VuF