In 2009, I used to write poetry. For myself. For reasons I didn't yet have words for. I would stay up until 3 am, thrilled, exhausted, but ecstatic, that I had written something that gave my own bones chills. I would go to bed proud, honest, so raw I could feel my own heart beating against my skin. My ribs were so bruised from that feeling, I had to hold them at night, make sure they stayed in place.
These days - I’ve been writing in metaphor, cryptic with the ways that I speak- because who wants to hear about a depressed girl with a past full of hurt? They want to hear about the girl who conquers the world, one Instagram post at a time.
Somewhere along the line, I forgot what it was like to write for no one, for an audience of strangers, for fellow lonely hearts. Suddenly, and all too quickly, my audience became people whom needed me to be something. Something that was much more put together than this bruised and purple heart, this ache that dug too deep to dig up and announce.
It’s easier being put together. It’s much more simple to inspire than it is to be honest- wow, do I own up to that. But it tugs at the heart, colors in the blank spaces with approval that wasn’t earned. wasn’t true.
Because in the end, I don’t seek approval. I seek love. And love doesn't grow from half hearted hope - it sprouts out of painful, ugly and cruel things that believe all along they are better.
I believe I am better. But I don’t believe that because I am faking my life on social media - I believe it because I am hurting and I still point out the sunset.