It’s the words and the images and the music that surround me.
It’s the way my thoughts are more profound than my writing
but I’ll never share the deepest ones with anyone.
It’s how I’m always falling in love (with memory and fantasy).
It’s how I’m only truly comfortable within my own mind
yet I love to be with people nevertheless.
It’s how I used to talk to everyone
and then I hardly talked at all
and now I talk when I want to (but I’m content just listening to people).
It’s how I fall for ideas, mostly.
It’s how I want to experience unrequited love, just once.
It’s how I want to live in New York
It’s how I want to get published (one day) but not until I’m good and ready.
It’s how I want to live in light
and in darkness.
It’s how I want to die on the battlefield
For my ideals
It’s how I want to see the Earth from space,
And how I want to keep the memory of the happiness I have found in me forever, for it gave me hope when I was lost in despair.
It’s how I always dress in black
(even when my heart is filled with laughter, love, and light)
and if you see me ten years from now I’ll be pale as a lily, with hair to match my wardrobe,
and when I smile it would look unnatural (but I’d do it anyway).
It’s how I can hate everything about myself, and yet never be happier with who I am.
It’s how sometimes the darkness can get to me, and I’ll drown in my shame and grief,
and the memories bind me to the past,
and I trace circles with the steps of my bare feet in the carpet, longing for things beyond me reach….
It’s how I was forged in sadness, and loss, and I’ve never forgotten any of it.
And it’s how I will never show weakness, or evidence of sorrow, in my life
(but sometimes the world grows too heavy, and I have to cry, and I feel the shame of it;
weakness, weighing me down, and, oh, Mom, I’m crying on the other end…) because I have to believe I’m strong.
It’s how I’m never ashamed to cry when something moves me, because my tears are a badge of honor.
(but not my scars, never my scars; I do not show them, wrapped in pretty pose; the metaphor and the clichof my life).
It’s how I carry memories within me like the bodies of fallen comrades (you will not be forgotten; you will not be forgotten; you will not be forgotten),
and how when I realize that I have forgotten the shock that I did forget runs through me like lightning, and I carry the burns inside my soul for weeks.
It’s how I hold dear things most people these days don’t even think of,
(honor and duty and loyalty and courage and oh, I gave my word, and it burns inside me like a brand--and I will never forget it…).
It’s how I don’t ‘promise’; I ‘swear it’ and mean it.
It’s how I love my dreams,
and how, even though I know they are not real, I keep those fading recollections of love and honor like precious stones inside me until they fade away.
It’s how if I stop writing this before it is finished I will never pick it back up again….
It’s how I can love someone, and hate them, at the same time.
It’s how I can smile, and break, at the same time.
It’s how I can be filled with light
and yet drawn to the darkness
(and how I can be seduced by darkness
and yet drawn to the light).
It’s how I can be so happy, and everything can be perfect,
while still love things of sadness.
It’s how I knew my writing would always be with me (and fear I would never have friends) one day,
and then gain what I had ached for (only to lose the only thing I knew would never leave me).
It’s how I could think I would rather take the sorrow, if it meant I could write again.
It’s how I would rather be sad and feel deeply, than be happy and feel nothing at all.
It’s how I still cry when I think about him,
and it’s how I will never forget what he meant to me.
It’s the love and loss, light and laughter,
It’s the despair and dreams, darkness and dishonor,
It’s those I hold dear,
and the ones I could never have,
It’s reality and fantasy,
It’s the tears and the smiles,
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