Watching the Sky at 2 am

In 18 years, I’ve experienced more death than births; I’ve been to more funerals than weddings.

The first time I broke down, I was caught by a boy with green eyes who made my world go round; the thirtieth time I fell, he was no longer there to soften my fall.

Love is a painful thing: it takes a smooth, beating heart and leaves it broken, bleeding, and jagged for the next person to cut themselves on.

I have written more stories than letters, but all of my stories are letters in their own right—addressed to the wrong person, so the right one will never read them.

I’ve realized that it is better to leave over time than to do so suddenly—to burn out slowly than to be extinguished by a gust of wind; however, I’ve set myself on fire, trying to ignite the sky on my skin, trying to burn myself all at once, trying to erase the memories that are on replay in my mind. But the sparks don’t catch, and I don’t turn to ash; I just become more fire resistant over time.

Every time I begin to fall in love, I’m left out in the cold; love is a difficult thing: sometimes the hearts don’t connect because of missed glances, missed chances. These are the moments when I wonder what it would feel like to be inside someone else’s chest, to be the beating organ that is keeping them alive; I learned that broken hearts don’t mean broken spirits: crumbling walls and leaking ceilings can be fixed, scars will heal over time.

The wind knows all my secrets, and you can too if you just listen.

I’ve learned that promises are only as strong as the person who tells them, which is why I’m trying to be stronger— I’ve been weak for far too long.

I fall too far too fast, because my head is always in the clouds; my knees are permanently skinned from plummeting down to earth when reality hits me in the chest and tells me you’re not coming back.

I love to read, because everybody has a story; and I’ve thrown caution to the wind, hurling mine into the ocean as I watch you swim out to rescue it.

No matter how far I get from the shore, there will always be sand beneath my feet.

I dance in the rain because I don’t feel as lonely as I’m being kissed from heaven.

Autumn is beautiful, because the trees lose themselves and find themselves again in the spring. Pain has a way of doing the same thing, which is why the scars on my skin trickle through my writing, because that’s what I know.

I turn in my bed like the last page of a book, but there’s nothing to stop me from falling except myself.

I watch the moon and stars at 2 am wondering if you can see them from where you are; and when I see a shooting star, I wish that you were here with me.

Love is more than falling in love; it’s about falling out of love. It’s about losing someone you once held dear—a friend, a significant other, a family member.

I love you.

I adore you.

I miss you.

In the Stillness You are There

In the stillness you are there.

As a writer, I can find my muse just about anywhere—falling leaves, the way a bird grips a branch of a tree, how the sun kisses every dark corner of the night and turns them into light; inspiration can be found in people, places, smells, sounds, tastes, anywhere and in anything. My biggest muse has always been silence; but silence is the muse of suffering.

As a college student, it has been hard for me to find complete silence, complete stillness; but, tonight, in a room full of praying people, I reached that place—my heart was still, my mind was in complete meditation before God, and I was overcome with emotion. Trying to hold back tears, as my breath caught in my throat, my heart immediately began to bleed; pain that I didn’t know had come back began to course through my veins, like a deadly poison about to take effect.

In the stillness you are there.

Silence has a way of reminding me of pain that I’m too busy to give the time of day, pain that is a reminder of the depression that is so eager to gain control of my body; I’ve told these tales before: tales of darkness, tales of hope, tales that tell you it gets better.

And it does get better.

For a while anyway, and then the demon rears its ugly head and turns my thoughts against me.

(This, I fear, is a recurring theme in my writings; but, my feelings have to be given life. I’ve been down that road of self-harm before; it’s a dangerous and dark road, and I’m not going there again.)

In the stillness you are there.

For a moment I thought,

“If only I was prettier…

If only I was someone else…

If only I was braver…

If only I was stronger…

If only…”

Then a whisper in my ear,

“Shhh. it’s going to be alright.”

A moment later, it was gone.

The moment of silence that I experienced tonight, the moment of stillness that took my breath away, reminded me that I am not alone.

My life won’t always be perfect, and I will probably still compare myself to others. And even though I’m in a rough patch right now, because the floodgates have opened and depression has come out of hiding, it does get better. I will get through this. Hope himself has reminded me that there is always a light at the end of the tunnel.

In the stillness you are there.

Beautiful, love

I want to write something beautiful; something that will leave you absolutely mesmerized. Something that will bring tears to your eyes as your throat begins to choke up, which causes your breath to leave your lungs as quickly as it came; I want to write something that will leave you absolutely speechless, render you incapable of forming words, leaving you totally dumbfounded.

But this isn’t it.

This is a misinterpreted love letter that is saturated with the tears of a love once lost, a love not yet known; it is dripping with the leftover drops of despair and pain, a hope once lost, a prayer now found—hanging out to dry on the clothesline of my heart, blowing gently in the wind of the whispers of my soul.

Beautiful, love.

This is a love letter being written one letter at a time as the pieces of my soul come together, allowing me to find myself one breath, one step, one heartbeat at a time; because with each heartbeat the lost pieces of my soul, that were given in little bits to everyone I ever met, find their way back to me.

Beautiful, love.

Thisis a love letter being etched into the earth with every step I take on this journey called life, serving as a reminder of where I’ve been and where I intend to go; it’s been washed down the sewers with the rain, reminding me that every day is a new beginning.

Beautiful, love.

This is a love letter that is not yet written, but being created with every passing glance, every longing stare; because we have not met, yet. It will be created slowly, being sewn together delicately as our souls become one; this moment will be magical, just as falling in love is magical. Fairy tales and pixie dust will not compare. When this moment happens, I will be ready; but for now, I wait.

Beautiful, love.

This is a love letter that will withstand the test of time; because as an extension of my soul, it is written on my bones, which will one day become the earth waiting to be found by a future wandering soul. This is a love letter written to no one in particular—not to you, and not to me—to the world does it belong.

Beautiful, love.

This is a love letter that is being written and rewritten in the sand as the waves change the landscape of the land; but, I don’t worry about the tide. I wait for it to come; because rewriting means changing, and changing means growing. And that’s what I want to do: I want to change and grow and learn with the seasons.

I am scared of being; that is why I am becoming.


Unfinished Thoughts

I’m having a creativity block; my creative juices flowing through my brain like a river are being stopped abruptly in their tracks by a dam of self-doubt.

Unfinished thoughts are the makings of my stories, but that’s all they are right now: unfinished.

  1. And just as the waves kiss the seashore, we are reminded that goodbye isn’t forever; goodbye is for now.
  2. Have you ever felt ashamed of yourself? Of who you are? I used to be like that; I used to be the person who put on the mask of all that is false whenever certain people crossed my path. I used to tell myself, “Run. Run far, far away; come back only when no one is looking.” So I ran. I ran far, far away with little to no intention of coming back. And replacing me was someone new, someone different, someone who was not me. Someone under the false pretense of being someone they are not, someone they honestly don’t want to be, and someone they could never be.
  3. I believe we give pieces of ourselves to the people who matter—the people who see our scars, and do not cry, but hold us, and tell us we are beautiful.
  4. I am scared of being, that is why I am becoming.
  5. So I sat there surrounded by faces; every face a story, every line a memory, every blink a future.
  6. I feel like I have two personalities, both almost polar opposites; I think that the place where they meet, where they join in their least common denominator, the place where I’m most conflicted, and where there is no distinction of color, only an infinite abysmal grey, is where I am my true self. Because more often than I should be, I am lost. I waver between one end to the other and this constant fluctuation is what makes it so hard to find my identity; everything is too confusing. But when I stand at the shore and both ocean and land are within eyesight, I’m at peace. I understand the essence of what it means to be me, and that includes the whole spectrum of it. I can actually accept myself.
  7. The most beautiful smile I ever saw was the one you are wearing right now, because I’ve never seen a smiling face that wasn’t beautiful.
  8. I believe that good things take time, and the scars that still remain will be only a lesson; because time heals, and someday the sun will shine even brighter than ever.
  9. Learn to get in touch with the silence within yourself, and know that everything in life has purpose; there are no mistakes, no coincidences, all events are blessings given to us to learn from.
  10. Because when you stop and look around, this life is pretty amazing.

These are my unfinished thoughts, the beginnings, the ends, the middles—a tangled web of ideas and words that are waiting to be made into something beautiful; until then, all the rest is unwritten.

Letter to Nowhere

I write what I know, and I know about pain; but I know about life and hope and renewal as well, which is why this letter is to you, in the hope that you will find some of that too.

i. There will come a time in life, when the weight on your shoulders seems too much to bear, and it feels as though at any moment you might collapse; when the possible seems impossible; the simple, complex; the brilliant, darkened. And when this moment comes, you must face life with a fire in your heart that allows you to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, and then some; that makes the impossible possible; the complex simple; the darkened, brilliant once more.

ii. You’ve reached this point before; I can see it in your eyes. And maybe you’re here now, I can’t tell for sure. But I do know that behind your concrete smile, behind your hollow laugh, lies pain, deep pain that runs throughout your veins, rushing deeper and deeper into your soul. Hidden in a vault of secrets, buried deep beneath your heart, is the story of your past; the story of your scars that you are so eager to hide, so eager to deny. Filling the page with the words written in your blood as you write away the pain; your story seeping between the lines.

iii. You tell yourself you’re beautiful, as you look at your reflection in the mirror with your eyes closed. Blocking out your image in your mind, trying to forget what you look like. “I’m beautiful, I’m beautiful,” you repeat to yourself fighting back tears; wishing they could see what you see, hear what you hear—you’re soul’s song singing quietly through the words that you say.


iv. Hope whispers in your ear: ‘You can do this; don’t give up.

v. Messages of hope are scribbled across the sky in the whites of the clouds.

The waves kissing the seashore remind us that goodbye isn’t forever; goodbye is for now.

Willows do not always weep. In fact, sometimes, their tendrils capture the sun.

vi. Your big eyes capture all the wonder that this life contains.

Your lips say joy’s name as your soul shines and radiates through.

vii. This is a message of hope and survival. It is the rain that pours down from the clouds to wash away the world and      start it anew. It is the sprouting of flowers that symbolizes new life.

viii. This is a letter to nowhere. It will be waiting here for you to find it, for you to read what it has to say.

One Day, You Will Fly

To all the people who think that they are not good enough; to the people who believe that there is no way out; to the people who believe that they are alone in this struggle; to the people who believe that they will never be loved:

This is for you.

To all the people who took a razor to their beautiful skin; to all the people who have starved themselves, who refused to eat, and then asked, “Am I beautiful now?”; to all the people who have ever wanted to end it all:

This is for you.

I know it’s hard. I’m not just saying that either; I’m not trying to sympathize, trying to understand what it’s like—because, until you’ve been to that point, you don’t understand. Until you’ve been down that road, until you’ve lost sight of the light, until you’ve been down the never-ending pit of despair, you will never understand.

I’m saying it’s hard because I’ve been there. I’ve been down that road; I’ve been down that pit, and I’ve dug myself out—over and over again. And I have the scars to prove it. Scars faint enough that only the observant will notice; but scars dark enough to show that I’ve survived.

I know what it’s like to be told to snap out of it, as if it were an insect that could be smashed with the smack of a hand. Rather, I’m the insect, and depression is that hand, threatening to destroy my being as it comes closer and closer—like a dark, ominous storm cloud that threatens to engulf a lone ship, Hope, sailing on the ocean of my soul.

And I know what it’s like to watch the blood drip off my skin as I cut myself open with the razor of hate, waiting for the needle of hope to stitch me back together again. I’ve treaded water in the ocean of darkness, while trying not to drown, waiting for a life-preserver to be thrown my way.

You’re not worth it; you deserve it; you’re ugly, and nobody cares.

Those words have repeated over and over again in my head. They serve as unwanted memories of things said and things done.

If only I were prettier; if only I were skinnier; if only I looked like that, all my problems would be solved.

Those lies are fed to me by the devil’s hand as I compare myself to others, reminding me that, sometimes, I am my own worst enemy.

If any of these words have ever applied to you, I’m here to tell you that you’ll be ok, and you’re not alone. It will get better, and it will get worse; though it may get worse for a while, I promise you that it will always get better. If it’s not ok, it’s not the end.

You won’t wake up one day and say, ‘I’ll be ok.’ It’s a journey, it’s a struggle, and it’s a fight. And with every battle you fight, you get a little bit stronger; every journey you take, you gain a little more courage. When it comes around again, you can fight harder.

Hope whispers in your ear: ‘You can do this; don’t give up.’

Some days, you will scream, and you will cry. Some days, you will want to stop fighting; but, don’t give up, my dear. Because, one day, you will realize that you are stronger than this demon that plagues you. Even though the urge to pick up that razor won’t go away, you’ll learn how to control it.

I learned how to write with pain—how to take the blood that flows from my skin and turn it into something beautiful instead.

And even though I know I have talents, I sometimes doubt my abilities. But, don’t we all? And even though I know that I am beautiful, sometimes I still compare myself to others.

“Some girls say they’re not pretty, because they know someone’s going to come and say “Shut up, you know you are”. But some girls say they’re not pretty, not because they’re looking for attention, but because that’s how they feel. They compare themselves and see what others don’t. We see someone beautiful, but they see stretch marks, gut hanging out, small bodily features that wouldn’t catch the average guy’s eye. That’s why some girls can’t take a compliment; they feel like they don’t deserve it.”

If you don’t know what it is like to feel this way, don’t tell me it will get better. It’s not a disease. Don’t judge what you don’t know.

But if you do know what it’s like, trust me when I tell you it gets better, because I’ve been in your shoes. I’ve walked that road, and some days, I still do.

My scars and my words prove it. And believe me when I tell you this:

One day, you will spread your wings and fly.