I’m pretty sure that whoever reads this first will be expecting something rather horrific, gruesome even, at the very least, sad. Even I can’t place my current feelings as I wove this narrative, I’m kind of hoping it will all unravel as we go along.
It is not a pleasing tale; that much I know.
This one is one of deception, of lies, of imperfection, of pain and pain and nothingness. It is a tale of brash and whispered want; of misguided stares and souls bared to lovers who couldn’t be lovers. They fit together so easily, too easily.
So far this has taken me around twenty minutes to write.
The fear of who I was when I forgot myself is stronger than all the self depreciating humor I love to uphold, but secretly cringe at the actual person I am. It is easy to fade, and fade we must in order to learn a thing or two.
And tonight I will fight. I will fight the remnants of my past, the ghosts of insecurity, of lost love, of unwanted love and the ghosts that have built a home in my mind. The ghosts that only I can fight. I will fight to have your face in mind when the ghosts come.
Under 10 minutes. I’m beginning to feel something.
Everyone can love you with every single bit of themselves, but if you don’t love yourself first… well, that’s something else. I can feel all the little miracles happening, I can almost touch them. I can feel my liberation; can I tell you what it tastes like?
My final death will be when no more words leave my blood stream and leave a mark so strong on the paper that it effortlessly sees its ways down generations. But not today, that’s not today. I will write boldly, humbly, and fully.
I feel… enough.