I’m waiting for you to write the rules.
What are your conditions? Tell me, I feel a fool.
Can and cannot.
I can, I can’t. I start then stop.
Do you really like me?
Must be. Because your eyes do look deep into mine.
But I’m nervous. Because never again… please, please don’t hurt me…I won’t get hurt this time.
Is it true that true love trusts
That the skies aren’t lying about being blue
And that the air isn’t an intoxicating poison from you?
Tell me, is it true?
Don’t start if we’ll have to stop.
Because I can love, but I also cannot.
A year ago I was in a very different place. Since nine months have passed since the end of my abusive relationship and I have progressed tremendously through the healing process, it was really interesting for me to come across some thoughts scribbled in my scketchbook from a year ago. Each of these statements are me processing a different aspect of abuse and are a window into a soul trying to just endure.
We are the products of our minds.
Mental energy. Mental discipline.
Self-image should be created by the self, not the words of others.
Intelligence is unquantifiable. But, it is achieved through different paths and perceived by others.
Self-love is necessary before one can allow others to love yourself.
Treasure each smile.
True love is unspoken of; it’s an understanding, choice, and bond between two people.
Words have the power to define a beautiful truth, or tread upon and trample that which is held sacred to another.
The world is blind. The world is controlled by fear, power, and greed. BUT the inner confines of my mind are an oasis.
Pain. It hurts if you allow it to hurt.
Sadness. A necessary emotion. Do not let it control you.
She had scribbled something in her notes. American History class. She was 15.
He asked me if I hated him and I didn’t know how to reply.
“Hatred only brings more hatred.” – Scar, “Full Metal Alchemist”
A window opens her view to the world, ushering in the light that hurts her eyes and the breeze that chills her skin.
She used to think it was possible to separate her idea of someone from their actions.
Her head jerks slightly as a sip of coffee collides hot liquid with her unprepared tongue.
She no longer can think that it is possible to separate actions from someone’s true identity. Humans exist through interaction with each other and the material world.
Her teeth sink into the quarter inch of cream cheese slathered on her bagel like a leg into quicksand.
She no longer can love someone hoping there is good inside. She will never again tough out being mistreated hoping the person hurting them will change. Actions determine alone who a person is and in them manifest who they want to be.
If someone wants to be good, kind, and loving, why would they act otherwise?
If soemone acts aggressively and violently, isn’t that who they are in reality and who they want to be?
The skin of her thumb is uncomfortable with the pressure it takes to pierce the peel of the orange in her hand.
There’s no good excuse for mistreating people. She wants everyone to hold themselves accountable. It’s too easy for humans to lie to themselves.
Every moment gives us a choice. And once we choose, the universe is quick in bringing us the inevitable consequences of those actions.
On the sill her mug rests, mixing the scent of coffee with grass and gasoline fumes outdoors. The draw string of the broken blinds dangles like an uncertain idea dangles in the mind.
I am free to own a knife.
I am free to spread butter.
I am free to carve wood.
But I can’t cut my neighbor.
I am free to write.
I am free to joke.
But slander and slurs I can’t make.
There’s a catch- freedom doesn’t excuse violence and hate.