The eye of the storm

    She numbed her Monday morning melancholy under the pound of her feet hitting the ground in a storm of pain and the rhythm of twenty one pilots pulsing through her veins with the words blasting in her ears; simultaneously soothing and reminding her of the harsh realities of a world in which she must never re-enter, when the truth of the matter is she never even left.
She is treading with care. Not because she is cautious, but because it is all she is able to handle right now. And that's ok.
    She walked through the hallway, and when asked how she was- she said she was simply "doing." Not that she was great, or well. And I am proud of this girl. Not for the mess she is, or the girl she is under the surface- because if you knew the monster that lives inside you would hate her the way I do too... but because she is beginning to realize that her brokenness is okay to recognize. She doesn't have to try and wear a mask anymore. The charade is over.
If there is anything I have realized recently, it is that wearing a mask is exhausting- and I don't have to. I am not surrendering myself to this battle, and I never will. I count my personal victories in the little things such as rising and looking at the sun. I count my victories in eating a meal even when my mind is chiding me, and leaving me in the corner for my actions. I count the beauty in being able to see that I am doing my best- even if it is kind of shitty, or the victory in slowly working towards seeing my worth beyond the calories, steps, scales, sizes, and view in the mirror.
    I want people to recognize the beauty that radiates from my radiant, fiery old soul. She is fire and fury- beauty, and wise. I am the rainbow from the ashes, and I am more the monday morning melancholy. I am the evening sunset, and the rising of the sun. I am the heart of the storm- and I know that no matter the hell I feel is raging- it won't last forever.

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Things Left Unsaid--Part one of the blog poem series

Snow White As the white silently encloses Covering everything it touches It is so serene And we go back Dawning on white blankets of crystallized cool Sliding into the still of the night. It is you and your thoughts: Just one last gaze at the white- To escape To forget the night. Each night. To forget our thoughts At least- that is what I imagine it to be like. It is calm. Each crystal entering as you lay there Allowing your body to finally be free. White blankets that disregard the worry outside your window Because one more night with this raw person you were Seemed like far too much. So we cover ourselves and watch this peaceful scene as the crystal Sinks. It is the silver snake working its way through skin. And we slumber into transcendence And learn that heaven is white, too It is blues and greys. Red. A clear sky morning. But the earth begins to moan beneath White blankets fade in and out for those left behind. ...

Open Letter to The Girl Who Wishes She Had an Eating Disorder

To the girl who wishes she had an eating disorder: Oh, words. There are so many things I would like to tell you in this moment, but all too quickly the time passes. My heart shatters in watching your eyes grow dark in the pain, as I watch you belittle yourself, and absorb the pointed and loaded remarks of society. I am sorry that society has made you feel so inadequate that you have the overwhelming urge to turn against yourself in your quest to find peace and self satisfaction. The satisfaction that society will never give you, and I guarantee you will never get. I am sorry that society has told you your worth in life is based off your size, or how many calories you can deprive yourself, rather than the overflowing compassion that flows from your soul, or the beauty of your free and passionate fiery spirit. I am sorry that society has become the fragile layers of ice upon which we traverse, when they offer no support, and we s...

Being Alone

I've thought about it- but I realize that I would probably be better off saving my energy for something else. I would be a fraud were I to deny that the emotions are there. Those emotions, the thoughts- they still wage a war to relinquish control upon my life. They have become so interwoven, they must be gradually peeled back, as if they were intrusive claws being drawn away from a tree in the darkest of storms. The scars that remain are undeniable, and the sound of war is most simply described as deafening. You kind of miss these thoughts, or perhaps these people. It's a twisted, sickening, convoluted game that others may never understand, unless they have been in your shoes- but for those who have been here- I need not go any further. For those who have not- it is the kind of mourning wherein we do not miss the pain of our tormentors or the war's we waged for our sanity. We miss the comfort of never being alon...

The Tales of Virago-- A Beautiful Mess

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