Life is such a broken toy of a thing. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wonder at how it turned out to be. The scant years between high school and myself have gone—where, exactly?
I have realized myself to be a diluted version of what I once was. These days I'm walking around with a dead-eye stare. I didn't used to hide my smile for special occasions. I look through my high school yearbook, go through the photos on my phone and I wonder how my former self could have been a much angrier person when my smiles were only ever genuine.
It was reform school that did it, I think; took the smile out of me, right along with the cruelty and will to live.
I have unusual eyes, you know; everyone always said so. Drooping eyelids and pale green irises with dark forest edges, purple bruising to frame them. Someone once told me that my eyes were breathtakingly beautiful after I'd been crying. They were breathtakingly beautiful most of the time, back then. I don't know what they look like now, only that no one looks in them directly anymore. No one looks at me directly. Including myself.
I look into the mirror on accident sometimes, and I'm am always surprised at what I see, surpised at the gentle curves on what was once a broomstick body. I run my hands over my ribcage, feeling the dip of skin where fractured bone was never tended. Hip bones still as sharp as ever. My lap is a much softer place to be, not that anyone would ever know, and my hands are not as swift to swing. I look at them sometimes, my hands. I never lost the habit of hiding them, even though the knuckles are rarely raw these days.
My ward noticed the scars, once. He was watching my hands on the gearshift and he asked me if I had a habit of punching walls. In my entire existence, I have never punched anything that wasn't alive, and I told him as much. It bothered me for hours that I didn't have a response when he asked me if he was the sort of kid I bullied.
I never had a response back then, either. I never thought of myself as a bully, I only hit the ones that bothered me. But that's something a bully would say, isn't it? I don't know. I don't know anything; that much hasn't changed. I feel more legend than human, yet no one knows my story.
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Here's a life lesson I've learned: there is a difference between people who ignore their pain, and people who pretend it isn't there. In my experience, the only people who pretend they are not hurting are those too weak to do anything about it. It is easier to pretend the knife does not exist than it is to rip it out of the flesh that closed around it. It takes a particular kind of courage to acknowledge injury, to acknowledge that something isn't right, that perhaps some things ought to have been done differently. It takes courage most of us do not have. Some people are so afflicted, so pierced with foreign objects that they are little more than walking wounds.
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— You said you love me. — He regrets, remembering the weight of those words. — You did this for me. But now are dating another man? Fuck you.
— But I love you, and it was for you. — Tears rolling down her face. — I did for the band. To help you guys. — So she breathes deeply realizing that having no hope might have been a mistake. — But I never put any hope, that this could bring you back to me. I was just conformed that I already lost you forever and followed the flow.
— You hadn't lost me forever — His eyes were close, holding tears. And he finish before leave: —, but now you've lost.
— excerpt from a book i’ll never wrote #1 // @blossomwrite
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