A Child Made of Glass

I could write you a terrible story.
I could write you a story about a lovely young woman who lives in a glass room.
She has hair to just below her breasts, a deep Southern tan, patient eyes, and the smile of a woman who knows she is being lied to.
She sits endlessly in this glass room.
Everyone watches, looks, and wants.
She burns incense, reads books, and listens to classical music.
She wastes her days in leisurely thought.
Daydreaming.
Everyone watches, looks, and wants.
People crowd the edges of her glass room.
Admiring her movements, her unique mannerisms, and her slim figure in denim cut offs.
Everyone watches, looks, and wants.
But no one sees.

It is a choice.

I will not focus on the past. I will be happy. I will do my best. Yesterday is gone, and today is here. I can only act so well with my limited knowledge. I will not judge. I will not hate. I will look after myself. I will enjoy the beauty of the day. I will try to develop some sort of compassionate feeling towards others. I will improve. I will move forward. I will not follow the usual path.


I will never be normal like you.

Fallen

It comes like a tornado - with warning, but very little. Stable for days, top-notch, on top, great. Then one thing here, and another there and I am faced with my lack of true role-models. The overwhelming ever present fact that my mother skipped me. The heavy weight of not being accepted by my childhood friends because I am not conservative or conventional. Hit with the knowledge that if I could, I would leave for a more secure family in a heartbeat, without a blink. I love my siblings, but I hate not knowing if they will respect me tomorrow. I just want affectionate, secure arms to spend a day in - where my thoughts are appreciated and cared for, where I am not called selfish for having feelings and needing care.

Yes, I understand that I am a grown woman, but my mother stopped seeing me when I was 16. I am missing a bit of development, be patient. I'm handicapped.

Empty Eyes

I have to get on, get up, get over.

Love and hate are the same; passion. Just two ends of the same scale. Passion never leaves, just changes. My ex boyfriend became one of my closest friends, but the scale forgot to change.

I have to take action, take control.

Silent Beauty

Dirty windows painted closed. People laughing and smiling. No sound passes to my ears. It's overcast and Hookah smoke surrounds them. I like to sit and wonder at their thoughts, their lives. They are more than I can figure out.

Dandelion Prison

Today I thought of a story, "The Girl in the Dandelion Prison." It was terribly short, and the plot was very overdone. So I didn't write it down - but if I had, it would have been here. So ultimately all I did was remember that this blog exists and needed some love.

Affected

I spent another night burrowed into the arms of an unwilling soul who just couldn't leave me there alone as I shouted at the demons of my mind. I'd blame the wine, but I am only too tense to act honestly when sober. It's always there, inside me. It's killing me from the inside faster than anorexia nervosa ever threatened.


One day I'll either die because of it, or overcome it.
We'll find out.