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I think people need to tell more kids that they’re proud of them for graduating high school. I’m absolutely dead serious, especially now. I can see the graduating high schoolers surrounding me right now are burned out and traumatized and depressed, and they’ve undoubtedly had a much, much harder time in high school than I ever had, and I had some pretty shitty high school experiences.

I graduated high school with no more acknowledgement than the standard “congrats on surviving another year of school!” And immediately followed by “have you finished all your scholarship applications?” That was fine for me. I knew i wanted to go to college, I was set and ready for it, eager to get out of high school into more challenging courses.

But if I just finished high school after two years of fighting through online courses and no one acknowledged the battles I went through? If I was as burnt out and traumatized as these kids are right now? I’d have never have gone to college.

So for everyone graduating high school, even if you barely scraped by passing: I see you. I’m proud of you. You did such a good job. I wish you success in what you try to do, fortune enough to keep you safe and happy, and health always.

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just because someone can articulate their point better doesn’t make them right, it makes them articulated. 

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Steam poured out from under the bathroom door, as the shower was on with the heat turned all the way up. This served to cover up any errant sounds, and perhaps to drive away any unbecoming thoughts.

Though, today it failed.

A section of the mirror stood as clear as a rainy day, wiped somewhat dry by the back of a hand. In that hand now was a pair of slightly rusty scissors. They sprung to life with the speed of a striking cobra to snip away at a ponytail that came down towards the bottom of the spine.

The scissors were unsatisfied, though, and a grimace made its way in the reflection. So they got to work, trimming and fixing and fiddling with the wily hair, slaying it as a knight would a dragon, until it laid dead upon the countertop, defeated.

By this time, the mirror was fogged up again, and so the hand came and wiped it gently, as if afraid of what may be revealed. All that became clear was that these small hands needed some practice.

The hair was short, though, and that was all that mattered. This was a victory, a relief, until the realization set in that this would have to be viewed, ogled, judged, and with that came a crushing anxiety.

It didn't matter, it doesn't matter; Nothing matters if a boy can't look and feel like one, and the boy in the mirror finally felt like himself for the first time ever.

With his work done, he breathed a sigh of relief and put the scissors back in the drawer. He picked up the mass of hair and threw it in the small trash can where it belonged. last but not least, with no sound left to muffle, he turned the shower off.

The light clicked off and the door swung open gently as the boy looked left and right to make sure the coast was clear. The house was quiet, and even the street was unusually silent. Sometimes, this meant safety. Other times, this was a warning, a warning that the other shoe could drop at any moment, and that was usually the case.

The boy rushed down the hallway, looking all around as he did just to make sure he was alone. A slight creak behind him made him turn, and as he did, he bumped into something soft and clothed. It could only mean one thing.

His mother was home.

He looked to every corner of her face, checking for any slight movement, any hint of emotion, but she sat motionless, having been knocked to the ground by the force of the collision. Her face was static. The world seemed to stand still for several moments as the two stared in fear.

It wasn't long before tears filled his eyes, and in a flash he stood, bolting for the safety of his room which he could lock. In another moment, he was there. The door was locked. She couldn't get in. Any words she may utter wouldn't pass through the door. It was the only thing that could keep him safe from the terror of the outside world.

He pushed his back against the cold painted wood of the door and slid to the floor, holding his breath as he did. This might be the last time he would get to. Would she be mad? would she kill him? What if he passed out from holding his breath for so long? He could hit his head on the door and have to go to the hospital and that can't happen. That just can't happen. What if he-

Suddenly, there was a slight shuffling sound just behind the door that interrupted the panic. He jumped up and was on his feet in a second. Was she coming? Was she mad? There's no way she wasn't mad!

A small folded slip of paper came under the door. He hesitated, but slowly approached to pick it up. He unfolded the paper. It said-

"What do you want me to call you?"

He blew out a sharp breath, as if the paper were burning his hands, but he knew there was only one answer to that question. He pulled a paper of his own from his desk drawer and a pencil from a penholder on top of the desk. He wrote the words, erased them, wrote them again and so on until he was satisfied, and then he slipped it under the door. His note reads-

"Call me Elijah."

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The Last Smile We'll Share

There, your stone sits

with what's left of you beneath it.

And on the stone, two dates,

the beginning and the End.

I came to visit you today,

though I wish it was on better terms.

It makes me wonder-

Did you really think nobody would miss you?

Your feline friend certainly has!

She was with you at the end,

crying out and looking for you;

Oh, how she Cried!

Worry not, friend,

for I'm taking care of her now.

Might I say, she's doing quite excellent.

And I wasn't the only one here;

No, your ex-husband came to see you.

We spoke about our time with you,

about how I thought I knew you,

and how I was so sure it wouldn't come to

This

I guess I was wrong.

He knew you quite well, better than I.

I said you were happy, smiling,

and full of zest for life.

He came to make me aware

that you get that way

right before you-

Oh!

It seems that I must go,

but I won't grieve too much

because I know we'll meet again

when I cross the bridge myself.

And when that day comes,

I'll wander through the blinding light

to find you again.

We'll stand together on opposing sides

and perhaps I'll see a grand smile

on that preciously sad face of yours

for the first and final time.

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I'm just gonna leave a note here, mostly for myself. I'm gonna commit to posting something original at least once a week. That is all. Ok bye

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⭐️ let’s go explore

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{Quotes: most of them are from my dairy others are from comments I read across web // painting:holly warburton }

Web weaving about how things went wrong way too many times

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“Why should I be sad? I have lost someone who didn’t love me. But they lost someone who loved them.”

— Unknown

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Not "I always knew I was different", not "I thought it was normal", but a secret third thing: it never occurred to me to think about whether it was normal until I was forced to, usually in a cruel way