Sometimes I look back at what I used to post and almost make fun of myself for being, you know, a dramatic teen.
But I was in pain, I was suffering, and I did have to deal with things that were difficult
and itβs easy now, having gone through them, to laugh at myself, to think, βhow theatricalβ
but it was a tragedy. It was a fucking struggle, everyday to keep myself upright, even if I later forgot about it
The reality of my existence, of the constant need to be heard and understood
and the fact that nobody ever did was hard to bear
and now I have accepted it, god, I truly have
but it was her that had to first learn of the terror and the war that trauma springs inside you
and it was her that had to find a way to deal with it, and it was her that found her only way out going through
Through the shame and the fear and the anger
So I donβt laugh at her, I respect her for carrying my burden so strongly, for shaking under the weight of revelations that a child shouldnβt have had to deal with
It isnβt easy now, to think of what has happened
But it pains me that I was so young then and already so wounded, so raw, so limp
Even if I still am just a girl, I understand now more than I ever could
and I read my own old thoughts and prayers and hopes and weep for the child I didnβt get to be , The happiness I never got to have
And I wish that I could have swept myself away from all the disease and the wretchedness and the cruelty and told myself that I never deserved it,
that no one ever deserves it,
but it is what we got and to forever cling to it
to forever live as victim or criminal, as pray or predator, is the poison that burns the blade that cuts the bullet that kills
to hold on to it, this child in pain that still reeks of innocence and purity, to hold the guilt in your hands so hard your knuckles pale, that, is corrupted, that, is death.
