Writer Girl, Interrupted

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When they take me by the shirt and try to pull me in, I push the words back into their not-now cages.

Nobody wants to read them, I make sure I remember.
You don’t need to any more vividness to it, I urge myself as if I were another.
Don’t amplify the voices in your head. Let them die down, I insist.

From the height of my balcony the world seems smaller, easier to tame; easier to love. I talk quietly, late into the night. I feel like an episode of my life, one that can only end if I am strong enough to fight the urge to hear myself typing it alive over & over.

Sunlight lay across my knees and I pray it protects me from the thirty flavours of fear knocking at me. I’m feeling everything everywhere. Not everyone can feel things this deeply. I love with both my hands and all of my fingers. When I hurt, I hurt in every colour, from every angle, in any lighting. Other feelings are bland, beige, tasteless. Mine grow into a thick, coarse darkness I have to keep kicking until it bleeds daylight all over again.

Fiery, roaring, breath-snatching, red hot soul. Bubbles deep in your stomach and your head spinning and your heart pounding kind of soul. I feel and I feel and I feel, like I am banging at the insides of a cage. I lay down by the window, exhausted at best, empty at worst. I find comfort in knowing that the opposite of coherent is interesting – just enough to get back on my feet and let it start again.

My loved ones often tell me to let it all out on paper, as if I should want to conserve it. Yet there would be too much effort to put into the white spaces, the dead spaces, the moments in between. Why save what I’m living, if I can’t love it? This past doesn’t need to be reused in the future.

These mountains that you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb, I laugh to myself, and cry to myself, and speak to myself in the same voice that would promise smoking more cigarettes and staying up another night with you on a sleepy dead end street, if only you’d ask. Instead, it tells itself stories. It tells me my stories. I didn’t ask.

I sit in the dark and listen to myself. I sound delirious, quick, and disconnected. I wish I were the girl who says the right thing, rather than the raw thing. I wish I could run my own fingers through the knots of my soul. I wish that, when I spread my heart thin like butter on toast, I didn’t wish for someone else to come along and snatch it off my plate. I wish I could learn to love the skies I’m under. I wish I were the thunderstorms I hide from.

I still fall asleep with beautiful scenes from my memories in mind. I still won’t write them down. I am always told I am too much. I am as much as I am, but I’d feel guilty if I added any more to that. I’m sorry I am all of this, I tell the girl who can’t be kind to herself while blooming, whose soul doesn’t seem to fit these days.

I wish I could forgive her.

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