I’m sick and tired of being used; being needed for a moment and then forgotten until further use is needed, like a cleaning solution. I can’t stand this anymore, this feeling that I am the one that needs to be strong and reliable. When I need someone, there’s no one to turn to. I get the feeling that even those closest me secretly wish for my downfall. They want to see me fail. They want to see me admit that I can’t do this alone. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. If that’s true, where are they all now? As I sit here locked in this prison. Constantly puppeted and turned to do others bidding, I suffer. I breathe slowly, savoring the limited oxygen provided. I choke. Hoping the next gasp won’t feel wheezy, but I struggle. I see my future. I feel it’s anything but limitless.
The more I think about it, the more excited I get about turning eighteen and finally being able to say that I’m an adult. I’ve been racking my brain from east to west trying to think about what I’m going to do with myself for this next year. I have no idea. There are so many things I can do, but I need to make sure that I continue doing what I’m supposed to do, like apply for scholarships. So many essays to write, so little time, but New York University is worth it. This is my school. I have a calling. It’s time for me to rise up to this challenge. Like always, I refuse to be discouraged from my goal.
A long reign of kings have searched high and low for the remedy, the solution, the fountain of youth; spewing immortality and buoyant skin. Dynasties of emperors have killed and pillaged through villages for the secret to everlasting life—to no avail. Some of the greatest rulers have ordered magicians to concoct potions that ironically poisoned them to their deaths. Endlessness of self is not what I crave, but endlessness of soul. My spirit, my heart, my love; I wish for it to stay on this Earth. In the soil, in the trees, in the flailing wind, I want the good deeds that I carry to be held in nature’s eternal beauty. As massive and complete as this world may be, I can only dream to remain apart of it as I go. That’s my kind of mortality and this is the only justice I seek. The growth of love on this tiny planet.
In my dreams last night, I let my past world burn. I set lighter fluid and flame to my old heathen ways and the devils that encouraged that behavior. I trapped the old thoughts in a field of dry trees and grass, they’ve all gone up in smoke.
He was there. I forced him to be there and I admitted to myself how stupid I have been. I looked him the eye and told him never again. With his dirty slacks and outstretched bottle, I told him that I respected myself. I shook my head. I’m no longer fourteen. Nor should I continue carrying on like I am. It was time to say goodbye, to lose the “fond” memories of recklessness was necessary. No regrets, just growth.
My whole life hurts right now because I’m a woman. If I were a guy, my insides wouldn’t be shoving for first-in-line out of my esophagus. The temples in my head would not be fervently erupting and the regret of the past would not be filling to the brim of my ability to hold patience. In a strange way, I feel like I deserve this because of all the self-gratitude I have treated myself to in the past few days. The vanity and the pride I have been subsisting on now sinks to the darkest corners of my consciousness. I am humbled. If anything, I knew this day would come where I would actually be hurt, get hurt, despite all my attempts not to. I am weak inside. Outside, the iron exterior hangs on creaky hinges. The screws in desperate need of repair. My arms too weak to do it. My will so vague and fragile. Here, I wonder if a night’s rest will pass this, in the hopes my regrets don’t scour my dreams with polished claws and hungry affections of tearshed. I seek mercy from these wounds. I lick them in the shows of surrender.
A string of setbacks keeps hitting me in the face and I keep struggling in how I am supposed to handle them. Most of these issues are of my own accord, but many of them are downright unnecessary. I would be able to tolerate them if my mind weren’t racing. Possibly, if I had enough strength to center myself. I’m fragmented. Or maybe the correct term is fragmenting. Regardless, I’m most certainly rambling and the chaos in my mind refuses to cease. Like milk that builds in the utter of a cow if the farmer doesn’t come to relieve them, I’m overflowing. I contacted my AP English teacher thanking her for being such a good teacher to me. I apologized for not giving her the card that I bought her, but she simply replied that she’ll be happy if I continue being myself. I wonder if she would still say that if she knew the real “myself.” I’m bursting. Containing some unknown substance; it’s the cause to my future brain aneurysm. Hopefully, this mess inside me will be useful and wholesome. Serve it on a plate to the mentally hungry and psychologically unearthed. Make someone’s descent from the clouds more pleasant because these setbacks, these mental setbacks, cannot be used for much else.
For our lady has fallen, rusted green
and flame dosed by the impenitent forces
that chain us all. With our sorrow and grief,
her soul escapes us. Leaving behind chaos,
disorder, distrust of our government.
She once reigned freely, living in our hearts,
and frolicking in our dreams. Second she
was, life then liberty. Birth, and then freedom.
Her crown stood tall and mighty, as a god’s would,
but immortal she is not, O Death! So Soon?
An infantile nation without a mother,
without a glimmer of hope. Without a nurse
To care for or nurture to health. The state is
lost. The state is in ruins. Her torch is blown
and the huddled masses are suffocating,
all inhaling the smoke of their servitude.
May her thought stay with us, newly inspire
us to think, act on our own behalf, not
one of rulers and not one of followers,
but one of free citizens of this country.
Here lies our lady liberty;
May her eternal fire always burn
I’ve decided I cannot deal with people that have low self-esteem. If you have not learned how to love yourself at the ripe old age of adulthood, then it’s time for you to invest in a therapist. I get that not every person was raised in a loving home with great parents. I am aware that some people were told that they were unattractive and have serious psychological problems because of it, but I feel like there are some people that don’t even want help.
If anything, it makes it hard for you to ever get truly close to anyone. You make the relationship completely and totally about you. You devour people. There aren’t many that want to (or can) constantly keep feeding your excessive appetite for compliments and praise.
Of course, I am just bitter because I’ve reached my breaking point with a certain person with low self-esteem. I was at a low point in my life where I was under the impression that my entire world was going to be completely swept from beneath my feet and this person who is supposed to be my friend wasn’t there for me until this person realized that I didn’t need them to be.
Never have I seen a person seek so much approval from someone who is completely down on their luck. “Please need me. Please want me. Please accept my love.” It was heartbreaking. I saw it, desperation, all throughout the body language. Any other day, I would have stopped and helped, but the fact that they only felt rejected because I didn’t was shameful.
I thank God for the reliable friends and the support system I do have because I know who I can trust and who I can’t. People can walk around with false titles and can think that they have my love, but the ones who really have it know it. I’ll only give it to the loyal and supportive. I’ll only give it to the ones that would never purposely try to hurt me. Just know, that I’d rather be alone than have someone who’s just using me in my life.
the loads that you bear—
both heavy and light,
morning and night, and
day after day. do
you shuffle them proud?
handle them nice? push
freedom in peddles,
alone on your way.
in daylight, we ride;
spinning. dawn to dusk,
we work and we work.
shoulders that carry
the news of ones loved,
but not one to hear
the message of Us.
-Rannie McCants, Pigeons
I gave this to my mother a long time ago for a Christmas gift. I think it surprised her most because she didn’t know that I could draw. Afterwards, she asked me if I’d be interested in entering my work into art shows. I told her that’s funny. My soul’s in writing, but I love art all the same.
Most days, I’m strong, but nights like this, nights like this have me forget. Memories from the past rush into me, daggers. I am weak. Quaking fingers and hands move salty tears, drown me, deep as oceans as the night ticks by slowly. I pray for it to leave me, have those thoughts escape me, rejuvenate me. Make me anew. Fresh from these fowl things that graze me and the lost wishes of my childhood. Oh, how they pain me. Get them away from me, let me be. I will repeat for the heart scars and dark binds, free me. Must I always live without peace?