"your writing is amazing!"
"you really have a way with words!"
"you're so strong!"
thank you.
thank you.
no.
my writing is not a reflection of strength.
my writing is not a beacon of empowerment, or a symbol of hope, or a sign of the times, or anything along heroic veins.
i do not write with steel in my blood vessels.
i do not write with rosie the riveter by my side or with cries of revolution ringing in my brain.
i do not write to be a label for a generation of grit.
ninety-nine point nine percent of the time i'm writing with bloodshot eyes straining against floods or with heavily drooping eyes begging to stop.
my writing is not beauty.
my writing is catharsis.
not the elegant, 'crying-aesthetic-tumblr' kind of catharsis.
the ugly catharsis. the one that hurts and bubbles with the heat of ripping hearts.
the one that scratches and snarls and tears you apart inside.
the one that makes you scream so much you enjoy it.
the one that hurts so bad but feels so good to get out.
it's catharsis because nothing else is.
because maybe i'm too much of a coward to let anything else be.
because words don't judge or laugh or bite you in the back. they sit there and listen. they are the only thing left to hide behind that doesn't whisper where you are to the catcher. a cowardly source of strength for a cowardly heart.
behind all these beautiful, shiny words lies someone who is neither beautiful nor shiny.
in this room of blackened mirrors and beating walls hides a lonely little coward
too scared to be forgotten but too scared to do anything about it
so this is where she spills her tattered heart
and these words are just shields and barriers to block out the rest of the world
these words are just spikes and "do not enter" signs to protect that shivering little mass of ideas
these words are just here to distract you from the scars and cracks that dot her skin
these words are just fake, a façade, everything she wants to see and everything she wants to be
these words are just meaningless neon signs to draw you close so that maybe you will notice the little handprints behind
these words are just a masterfully created disguise
these words are not me
these words are not me
these words are not me
and yet, maybe they are.
YOU ARE READING
poetry oneshots
Puisi"when i cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me i am in darkness - i am nothing." - virginia woolf, the waves sparks of thought and glimmers of ideas, encapsulated in words. note: some blackout poems are published in here and will be i...
