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I have never hated feeling a certain way, like I have hated shame and a lack of freedom.

My dreams are big, I tell my mother. She grasps onto me, she ties me down and she tells me, “no”. I need to live, I tell my father and he tells me that there is nothing for me to live for but him.

Why is that? The blood running through my veins is enough for them to have claim and ownership over me? Why is it that I was forced to love my mother so dearly that the bonds on my wrists are loose and easily shattered, but I cannot will myself to break them.

I want to stay and I want to go. I want to go in happiness. I want to live, my body and my veins and my blood may be theirs, a product of them. Though my soul has always been mine, it could never be owned, it is all I have. I won’t let them have it.

Why cant you love me enough? Love me so that I know that there is nothing I could do to lose you. That you would love me, even if I brought you shame, that you would rather see me with breath in my lungs than see me bloodied and dead. I can’t have that my father told me, there is nothing but shame and respect.

I know that there is more to life, than this violence I have inherited through their blood and body. I know that there is a breeze on a mountain top, that I wish to breathe, I know there is land on which I wish to walk upon. I know that I want to fall in blissful love.

You can’t have it both ways, they tell me. YOU WONT HAVE IT BOTH WAYS, they tell me again.

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Do you remember the things you said to me when you were angry…

When you hated me with every breadth of your being and every hollow cave you managed to suffocate full of hate, do you remember?

When the scars I had given you were small and easily fixed, though I was wrong and though I was mean and nasty and vile and every synonym nearing to that one. I did not deserve the pain that lasted a year. That ruined every bit of my being, every moment I walked.

I had given you pain first but you melded it into my being, my bones, the oxygen I breathed that went straight to my head, was yours.

I didn’t deserve half of what you gave me. I deserved to be able to look into the mirror afterwards and be able to stand myself, instead I could not even bring myself in proximity with it.

I hate myself for what I did to you. Yet I hate you more than anything I could’ve ever done to harm you.

I know you were fifteen but I was fifteen too.

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It’s when I’m mixing my milk and my custard powder when I remember the intricate details of every cluster of memories stored in my brain in some disarrayed order.

Order is not even the word for the mess in my mind, my mind is laid out in all shapes and sizes in squares and edges and spheres and lines that are incomprehensible. Sometimes however when I quiet my mind and manage to sort the lines out to some “order”, I find the bits that I did not see, sometimes I wonder upon a memory that you gave me.

The things you all said to me before you faded. Every single one of you, from my father, to my foe and my friend.

I find now that there is a reason I like the disarray my mind is constantly in. I don’t want to remember, I don’t want an order, I do not want the pieces of the puzzle to fit. What if they cause me to feel something new that knocks my senses for another a few months? What then? What of me when I find an order, alphabetical, ascending, descending? Will I suddenly find myself? Or will I contort myself to become what I was before? A disorder of now useless knowledge? I’d rather be nobody, I’d rather be a wreck.

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I like to think I’m mysterious like the girls in my books.

That I’m the girl that always has something good to say all the time.

Like I can be entertaining, like im a conversationalist that exists not a moment too late or too soon.

The truth is I’m a sparkly chest with a rigid key that nobody can pry open.

I am not mysterious immediately. I make jokes and hide behind my own silence, but I am neither the funny girl, the shy girl or the mysterious one.

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It’s so drowning to know you.

To share your blood. To feel it coursing through my veins. To feel it as I make every bad decision that reminds me of you.

When my heart beats fast and I only hear you. I only feel you in my veins and my capillaries, my red and white blood cells all rushing together in frenzy.

I do not like you, but perhaps, maybe I might have learnt to love a small part of you.

I hate it when you talk to me, because it is then that your eyes turn black and I begin to see the skeleton of your former self.

Unfortunately the man I knew died before he ever got a chance to live.

Now inside his cave of a body, somebody seems to be occupying that empty and hollow person that sits in the black of your eyes.

The eyes that are losing colour. I can tell that you haven’t been alive for years. I just wish I had noticed sooner.

I think I loved you once. Perhaps… I don’t quite remember anymore. I wish I could at-least then I’d know if any of it was ever real.

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I am intellect. I am a poet, a write of sadness and loss. Grief and misconception.

I am an intellect.

I am not good with numbers or remembering things. I am a mirror of all I can be and all I am.

Often I write words in orders that I barley understand, often I am at a crossroads with myself.

How can I be an intellect?

When every inch of me breathes through fear.

The skin I wear inches long and inches wide.

Is there no solution to fear?

To embarrassment and hatred and regret and misery and grief. All the root of fear itself.

I am a little less that charismatic. I want to believe that the person who’s eyes I stare into in the mirror is fearless. Yet she is timid in her eyes, she fears what she knows not, and my goodness there is large of what she knows not. She knows she is endless. Limitless. Corrupted and innocent.

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I love my mother. I hate my father. I love my mother.

But I hate my mother. She’s loving and then she’s not, she’s good and loving and nice, and suddenly she is mean and cruel and abusive. I love my mother she cooks me meals, and knows when I’m sad, I love my mother she stays strong when I’m weak and feels everything I feel, just as how I feel it.

I hate my father, I love him too, he stands for me when nobody else dares too, he would hold a gun to someone’s head for me. But he’d turn it back to me if it came down to it. I mean literally, he sat me down on a sofa at his house and told me that honour was above nothing else and if it came down to it he would kill me and then we’d die together. I hate my father he would hurt me, but he’d hurt himself if he hurt me too. I hate my father he left me, to be a man of foolish desire. I love him still, like the grass does it’s dirt, it hates the dirt because it forces it to be still, but it feeds it so it’s living.

I hate them both, in the way I love them. I love my mother selfishly like my father does, and I hate my father like my mother does. It’s all the same just tipsy and reflected at times. I wonder if love is real, conditional love is a fantasy, unconditional is the only real thing you can find. I don’t think it exists to find it though.

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I hate men. Not in a phycho “kill all men” kind of way. I hate when they threaten me, when they know they will win. I hate when I’m scared, when my heart beats faster as they scream at me. I never had a man in the house, I guess that’s why I get so scared so easily. Even with my friends that are boys, when they jokingly say something like “I’ll hit you” and do not laugh (we are the only ones in my house). It isn’t scarce I feel, it is pure horror, at their words. Many men have threatened to rape me over the years, I never lose my fear even though it has never happened before. “Let’s drag her to that park”, they say and I laugh but I feel my stomach drop as if my heart is pushing my stomach into my intestines and womb. Fuck it hurts. Like a dagger being ripped against my torso.

I wish I wasn’t so fucking pathetic.

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I’ve never been much of a romantic. But I do wish I could be, when the nights are lonely and all I can dream up is a strong chest I’m laying on. Letting me spill my worries out, letting me let my thoughts rampant.

To spill the ills in my little head and empty it out and carry a clean slate. I want to lay on someones chest and hear them breath in and out and in and out. So maybe just maybe I can feel what life feels like again.

I’ve imagined it often though I hate to admit. I love imagining my person, being a vessel broken, someone I can fix and they can fix me so we can sit and see our scars together. They’ll fix mine and I theirs.

Im not sure what love is, it isn’t the unconditional love I feel for my mother and the lack I feel for my father. It isn’t the motherly love that seeps from me to my siblings.

It’s a crusade of the bad and the good, the intricate details of another being imbedded into your own, the good and the bad.

Im miserable and I hate it. I miss the sweet lulls of sleep. I miss the vibrance on the walls. I miss the magic the winds carried before. Now they howl outside of my window at night. Some mornings I wake and see the birds are not singing.

Maybe. Just maybe if I had somebody to share my pains and my misery there would be no reason for me to even consider the vibrancy of walls, the magic of winds, the singing of the birds.

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I always thought of myself as the smartest in my room. It is the same confidence I wear when I see my friend fall back into an abusive cycle. The same hubris when I watch my friend take another drag (of whatever they are smoking that day). The same pity I feel when I watch breakdowns, and crying fits and violent outbursts starting from petty fights.

The bruises, the traces of hair left in their wake. Gossiping and rumours and hate. And my god I can’t escape it, I turn to see the recipient of such violence, but I find no trace of it. I look down and that is when, finally I see it seeping into my cracks, my fresh wounds are infested, with lies and smoke and abuse, theft. Well I can’t name all the human sins I’d be here forever.

My hubris is gone, my wittiness has been barricaded by the sins I judged others with so thoroughly. So vile I was to assume my smarts would be defence enough. Sins are not born they are thought of, and carried like a disease, a virus, an infection, through your blood and then up into your brain. Till there’s nothing left but sin.sin.sin.sin.sin

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I always thought of love as it was shown on Disney movies.

I Watch now however those same movies with a glare and a need to scream at what was shoved into my tiny ears and vulnerable eyes.

It isn’t real. Aurora will never meet her Prince Charming because sleeping women do not like to be kissed and Cinderella didn’t ask to be stalked.

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I don’t know moderation.

I don’t know the value of little by little, only larger and larger.

I am a big foodie and I eat and I eat till my stomach sores and I don’t have space enough for a burp to make its way through.

In the same way I suffocate myself with insane loving, stuffing myself so full of it, until I am forced to throw it up, there was something wrong with the food.

Then I hate and I hate and I hate till my guts fill over and threaten to violently overflow in a way that threatens not only my insane loving but the good that I have shoved in my body and knowledge that I have cradled led in my mind day and night and night and day.

I know no moderation, in the things I love or hate, the things that should be good for me and the things that will always be bad for me.

I am a reflection of opposites, not a reflection at all.

I am my mother and my father. My sister and my brother. My hatred and my love.

Each time I am more and less of the other.

I am a character, I wake up I play my role, and I stuff my self full of hatred and insecurity and judgment and resentment, love and sincerity and attempts to right my wrongs that are so undeniably foreign to forgiveness, because at this point there is no going back. No feigning innocence no shedding of tears, even if I exceed any moderation. I am a character beyond moderation.