About something that never should have meant anything to me.
Inky claw marks left on paper as a means to bleed out, for some relief.
That was my only fight.
I tried to scream, I did.
But when I’m mad I cry.
I wanted to stand up for myself, step out of my own skin.
Believe me.
Maybe if I tried harder.
But how?
Do I try harder to make it right?
Or harder to fight?
At this point I don’t know which is winning.
Or just don’t try?
Am I in too deep?
Over think, no wait, over drink.
Liquor for courage to give me looser lips.
I told you this story, but does it make sense?
I wrote it with cold fingers, and I suppose it really is no story.
Words on paper.
No more.
But at least I finally wrote them.
I’ll cling with white knuckles to that little victory.
That’s been really hurting, how I feel I’ve somehow lost that part of me.
I’m still mad and hurt, giddy and joyful, alive.
I haven’t changed all that much.
My hands forgot how to write is all.
Perhaps at a time when my mind is to be growing, it’s grown all too small.
No, it’s not what you think.
For the thousandth time, stop telling me.
Telling me that “It’s ok” and “Don’t worry.”
I know it is.
‘Cause even when it’s not ok I keep breathing.
So don’t mistake me.
Though I tend to scribble words in places all too confusing.
I’m not broken, and neither are you.
It’s ok to be hurting, I’ve found it won’t kill you.
Even if you want it to.
So you’re best just to feel it.
Let it steep and let it stew.
Make it something, painful and brutal, and beautiful, even if only just to you.
XoXo Gussie
