#writethetruth

[thewanderingsaylor]

An Open Letter to Assholes.

Hey, assholes. This one’s for you.

People think I’m okay because I do my makeup and get my nails done. Because I try to leave my house and have an ounce of fun for my sanity’s sake. The truth is, I’ll do anything to make myself feel more human. More than blood draws and track marks and addiction. More than ER visits and X-rays and CT scans. More than the burning under my skin that is present with every breath I dare to take. More than every single day I wake up and have to ask myself a slew of questions.

What hurts? How much? What meds can you take for that? Do you need a doctor? Do you need to go to the hospital? Can anyone drive you? How far from a hospital are you?

The list goes on. It usually ends with me being more exhausted after my little self-evaluation than I was right upon waking. Imagine, then, the audacity of a woman who dares to try and pull herself together by winging her eyeliner and getting a manicure every now and then. For SHAME. Cue eye roll.

People will say I’m insane. That this chronic illness is in my head. That I am “trying to be sick.” To these people - who deserve a hearty throat punch - I say, why would I willingly endanger myself, not to mention make myself so miserable most of the time life doesn’t seem worth living? What kind of person would I have to be to hurt my loved ones over and over? To see the light dim in my fathers eyes because his one wish in life is to make me better?

I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. And to those who continue to question me and my body: it’s not your problem, and it was never your fucking business anyway.

Imagine having an illness no one can see, that no test reveals, that no doctor can solve. Then imagine that illness ripping you apart from the inside out over and over and over. Imagine crying in bed every night, wishing you were dead. Imagine the concerts and road trips and dinners and dates - cause good lord knows romance is dead when chronic illness is involved - that you’d have to cancel last minute. Imagine those days when you realize your friends have stopped calling. Imagine your own family shredding themselves to pieces to try and fix you.

Go ahead, I dare you.

After being treated like an addict and a madwoman for the past four years, I have no compunction with regard to slicing people out of my life. Zero. So have a goddamn sense of self-preservation next time you open your mouth with my name on your tongue. It probably didn’t deserve to be there in the first place.

I am a stranger in my own body. It is enough feeling like a powerless passenger without the ridicule and disdain.

Sincerely yours,

A Supernova.

[thewanderingsaylor]

Supernova PSA, Part 2.

Who are you to tell me who I am? Who made you the king of thought and conscience? When did I let you make me start doubting myself so deeply, I craved your admiration and acceptance?

You, who dimmed my light. You, who spat in my face while I was on my knees with my heart in my hands. You, who tell me my art is worthless and my mind too damaged to offer anyone a future.

You are the most broken of us all. I wonder, when did those cracks in your foundation turn into crumbling splinters you could feel pricking your skin late at night? Who was the person who took a hammer and rained down blow after blow? When did violence and pain twist their roots into you so deeply, your heart was left in bloody shreds?

I hope you know you are more than a broken toy left discarded on the curb. You are more than a punching bag or a placeholder. You are more than a passing thought or a brain-rattling backhand. You are more than these words on my pages.

And so am I.

How dare you try to sway my hips with your honeyed promises, all the while your fastidious hands attempting to mold me into the model you wish me to be. I am cold fire that recognizes those I love and admire, whilst reducing everyone else to ash smears on the side of the road.

I no longer recognize you.

I am the shadows that cling to your walls. I am the blazing glory of shooting stars and raining meteorites. I am the taste of blood on your tongue and the smell of saltwater in your lungs. I am both a master of my darkness and a bringer of light. I am a supernova.

The question is, who the fuck are you?

s. k. g.

[thewanderingsaylor]

Spilled Ink.

With ragged breath And tired eyes I scrawl my sanity Over layers of chipped paint, Carve my muffled screams Into hunks of metal, Scrapped for salvage Just like my soul. Can you feel my Bloodied knuckles And bared teeth, Barely human Primal perfection In a feral fire Only moments from Ignition? Can you hear My death agonies Keening cries & guttural growls As my voice loses itself To the night? I can. Because beneath The petal pretty words And twisted tragic thoughts The truth beats A violent pulse That drives me To nail myself to the wall Again And again, The tracks of glistening wet Spilling from my veins All that is left To tell my story. s. k. g.

[thewanderingsaylor]

I didn’t dream of dying last night. But I’m still haunted all the same.

& in my mind, I’m flying again; the world outside a blur and the setting sun at my back as my foot urges my car onward with a growl drowned out by the thudding bass of the stereo.

These four wheels are my wings and I’ve been standing still on the ground for far too long.

s. k. g.

[thewanderingsaylor]

Supernova PSA.

When did we humans begin using the phrase “I am not enough?” What friend stood by and let their loved ones chip away at their own brick and mortar, scarring their foundations beyond repair? Who told you that you are not strong, that you are not beautiful and just and unique and just as flawed and human as you are supposed to be? Who held your head underwater while you drowned? Who drenched you in gasoline before throwing a match and walking away?

To those people: I’m sorry.

I can’t imagine what it must be like to destroy those you love. I hope you think about that late at night, when you’re alone in the dark and your own demons are flaying you alive. I hope you remember with each ragged breath that there is someone else out there whose own oxygen you stole.

But mostly I hope that one day you will understand that to break others irrevocably is to damage yourself beyond repair. That is the deepest form of self harm.

And to those glorious souls who scream at the stars, begging the constellations to tell you “why you,” why you weren’t “enough,” I will say this:

You are a supernova. Few could ever hope to hold your fire in their hands without getting burned. It takes a power to know a power, and those people just aren’t ready for you.

Let them run. Let them hide. They’re struggling to find their own light, but that doesn’t mean it has to dim yours.

Keep going. Keep shining. The world needs you.

s. k. g.

[thewanderingsaylor]

Blackout.

I can’t remember Who we were Before endless tomorrows Turned to forgotten yesterdays, But I still walk these lonely halls of memory, The stale air a burn in my lungs as my Fingertips graze photographs Of almost familiar faces. Tears slip silently down my cheeks As my heart stutters in my chest. Oh, how I long to know that girl I see, With her smile unhidden, Face wrinkled with joy And open laughter.

Who were we before we became shadows Aching to cling to the ghosts of our past? Who were we before golden childhood summers faded into snapshots of pain laced with regret?

Dust caresses every corner, every frame, A hazy veil I can see but not touch; And I reach, God, how I reach for the past, With a trembling desperate tension I could cut my teeth on - But it’s never there; I cringe, shrinking back from A mental wasteland so vast, All I’ve ever found is A black hole eating away at who I was & Threatening to consume who I want to Become. Every apparition is a razors edge in my mind As I stumble, half conscious, to the door. If all I am is built upon who I have been, How can I know myself at all?

s. k. g.

[flynndlesnow]

Mr. O'Brien, that sneaky, sneaky man.

Hello readers!

Well, I am back again to expose another reporter who has been dipping his hand in the political cookie jar that is New York City. Elections are coming and word is a certain reporter is writing biasedly in favor of his political donor. Connor "Lefty" O'Brien, you know the reporter from the Daily Agenda? Well, seems ole' lefty has an "agenda" of his own. Bribes, corruption, criminal dealings are all what Mr. O'Brien is serving up for dinner. Check the morning edition of L.E.S Now for all the new juicy details. 

Serving up daily justice, this is Flynn signing off.

Make sure to drop an email in my inbox with any info that you might feel needs to be brought to light.

[email protected]

[hannaillustration]

My illustration was chosen for American Illustration 39! Thank you to the jury. Illustration was created for The Pennsylvania Gazette “London Summer and Shadows”. -Penn students abroad-and their teacher-work toward telling the stories they need to. . . . . #illustration #americanillustration #writers #writethetruth #stories #line #hannabarczyk #writing https://www.instagram.com/p/B_na2UjBIeu/?igshid=xbkog9i0h5dl