Skip to main content

Nineteen.

I thought I’d feel it when it was done. He saw through it. He saw what I meant, though I hadn’t expected that. It wasn’t perfect, not even close. It was full of flaws, marked by what it wasn’t, the lack of movement, the lack of love. That was all over it. 

I raised my middle finger, but not out of anger. Their hands claimed me, and when they left me here, it was like the abandoned child suddenly became a genius, only recognized once the gold glittered.

Only then did it matter. It was supposed to be about joy, but as I stood there, blindsided, taking every blow that wasn’t meant for me, I felt it. Just a little, the satisfaction. I had done it, but they refused to see it.

My life has always been linked to death. Almost like a curse, someone important dies around my birthday. Coincidence, maybe, but the fear is real.

I can see the preparation for what I walked into, but I see the love more. I should believe in it. I finally spoke of the emptiness. The hollowness that crushes me, it wouldn't have hurt if I didn’t have a heart, a name, something proving I’m human. No joy, no sadness. I feel nothing.

I prayed for something this morning. Tonight, I might pray to take it away. I hope I feel something on this birthday.

Nineteen, be the answer to my soul, not the end of my worth.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fading Glory.

It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable. It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication. The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used. They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders? My mat...
Post a Comment
Read more

Loss.

It's done. In a weird way, I feel nothing. I never feel it when I—when we—win. I feel immense joy and pride, but inside, I feel dead. It's not something I can attribute to anything around me, but rather a hollow void that gnaws at me from within.  It’s more like the crippling pain of loss is the only thing that truly makes me feel, a sharp contrast to success that leaves me questioning everything.  Winning brings a dull ache, a disbelief so deep that it borders on denial, as if the reality of the moment hasn’t quite sunk in yet. It’s as though victory is plastered over by emptiness, a numbness that lingers long after the cheers have died down.  And in that quiet, when the adrenaline fades, I'm left wondering why success feels so lifeless, so devoid of the depth and intensity that failure forces upon me. It’s as if, without the sharp edge of loss, I’m left drifting, unable to truly grasp the meaning of what I’ve achieved.
Post a Comment
Read more

The Old Vase.

We remember so we don't forget. Of the pain, of the love, of resistance, of liberation. They will forget, their children will not remember. But our flesh has the memory stored in our bones, as we are born, it is born with us. In us.  Forget about it. Forget about yesterday. Time that's to come is made by time that's gone by. The bones remember, the flesh clings to what was, and with every breath, we resist. The past slips away with parts of us, we must hold it gently without letting its arms turn into binds.  Can we live without leaving scars when we were all made of wounds? Can we make choices that feel like they reach beyond ourselves?  We remember as if by instinct because we were forced to forget once.  I hold the cracked vase gently. I wait for the glue to arrive. I can buy a new one now, but something tells me the old one will last longer. Once we trace our fingers over the scars, let them heal and fill them for all the space it has created.  Maybe then, t...
Post a Comment
Read more