No one is the person they thought they would be at five. Because at five we were all still hopeful. At five we had big dreams and aspirations. At five we weren’t broken miserable beings that didn’t believe in love. At five we had no idea how awful people can be. At five we were just ignorant little twerps with shining wide eyes that really believed anything was possible.

Dear You,

I don’t know if you ever wondered if someone really really cared about you ever because sometimes I do. And I honestly did care about you like that at certain points. It wasn’t lovelove, it was just love. I loved you as a person. I loved you for who you were and what you did. I remember the things you would say when you opened up and they made my heart swell. And I remember when I was feeling deflated from life you gave me a new perspective that wasn’t so pessimistic.

I kind of just wish you saw me in the same light as I saw you. I wish you cared enough to respond to this letter, but you won’t because that’s how the world works. Nothing is ever balanced. Someone is always settling for the other. I just wasn’t worth settling for in this case.

Me xx

And we are the girls that are only good for the time being. We will be tossed away and replaced by the future. But see, us girls don’t forget as easily as you do. We pine quietly in the dark in our beds with wet pillows at our heads. We sit heartbroken in subways with sad songs filling our eyes. We wonder what you are doing and if you still think of us. I poured my heart to you and you responded in silence and that answered every question I had about us. I still wish you the best and I still wish you happiness. I just still wish sometimes you could have been happy with me.

Some say I refused to leave the womb for the longest time because even as a baby I knew how tragic life would be. Growing up I was a strange little girl. I picked minty leaves that sprung from the ground, fuchsia flowers, juicy red poisonous berries that grew between the neighbor’s house and mine, and mushed them together with rocks.  I would use my concoction for whatever magical purpose I needed. When my older brother teased me about my pudgy belly and round face I would remain silent as long as I could. It was as much a game for me as it was for him. Sometimes when I finally broke I would burst into heartbreaking tears that made me wish myself out of existence. Other times, I would scream at the top of my lungs so the whole neighborhood could hear my tortured soul at just five years old. I would take my shattered self and create a love potion so strong that no being could resist. A mythological creature, with the purest of hearts, would take me onto his back and we would fly onto the clouds and lay there talking. Years later, those same berries, leaves and flowers that saved me from such sorrow, would be extinguished by time, bulldozers and men in hard hats.  

In the morning and late at night before I go to sleep, there are only a few seconds in-between my transition of glasses to contacts. Even throughout the day my contacts go unnoticed. I forget how little I can truly see on my own. In nine years my sight has deteriorated so much that when I take off my glasses quickly to wipe off smudges I am unaware of my surroundings. My bookshelf to the left of me becomes so blurry that had I not memorized it my mind, I wouldn’t even be able to guess what it is. Colors blend together and there are no longer solid shapes, just estimations as to when things begin and end. 

Those strangers that used to suck away your soul will slink into their hamster wheels and they will run until they get tired and then run some more even after every ounce of motivation is gone. Because, where else is there to go? There are only so many ways you can do nothing, yet someone who received a special piece of paper can tell you you’ve moved up in life. We will all just run and run on this wheel that has no true ending. Because even after death there is more.

She was fragile and she was frail. And each rain drop that fell left an imprint on her body. They became scars of all the regret she had ever felt. They were reminders of all the longing moments she had thought herself out of. No matter the pain or hurt she was just another person who needed to remember. She needed to stop waiting for something to inspire her and change her life. The only force that will drive you is your mind. It is not your heart, it is not your soul, it is not your gut. Your thoughts will be the catalyst to your self revolution.

I thought all I had to do
to stop from hurting was distance myself
from any kind of relationship
that would be able to bring me to tears
so I began grouping everyone together
lovers, friends, enemies.
until everyone was just a summary of themselves.
where no one mattered at all.
not one being.
I don’t know when or what but
I lost something
along the way.
And the problem of me needing someone
was replaced with me needing
to fill a void

It was easier when I knew what my problem was
it reminded me of who I was.
Had someone ever summarized me it would read
“Likes dogs
Writes
Prefers spring to winter
and is deathly afraid of being forgotten”

Maybe people aren’t meant to be distanced apart.
Maybe it was better that I felt too much
than I felt nothing at all.

She used to be consumed with fear. Fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of growing old and forgetting. Why does every statement she make have to be profound and uplifting? Now she wants to wallow in self pity until the clock is standing still. She will let the beeping melody of ventilators be her metronome of death. Watch from across the hall as she withers and grows more fragile. Watch her last dying breath end with a sigh of relief. Relief that death has released her soul into the world. Relief that she can finally rest.