thetrinamarie73

[thetrinamarie73]

The Letter

A journey to the moon is a slow and kind climb when your hand in hand with the great divine.

I saw you fall

and at least 100 times I saw your legs buckle beneath you and force you to crawl. No road to redemption is perfect but no matter how painful you knew it was worth it. I saw your whole being burdened with bruises and you were ashamed most days for it. I know pain and I know it can slow progress down.

You had tunnel vision, didn’t you?

You never thought, what you never knew. To expect the unexpected? You didn’t have it in mind. That while your eyes were on the moon. A piece of your soul had broken away and stayed behind.

What does it feel like? losing a friend. Does a broken spirit ever mend?

I want to know.

Do your thoughts ever descend?

To the lowest caves, the dens… you have dug in your mind? Where ghosts dwell and dine off our fears. Where demons have been screaming for years. Lies to try and convince us that we are a background character in our own stories.

Did you start to believe that you are unseen?

I heard them when they were yelling at me. Saying,

“You are the inconvenient yet necessary part of the plot, that clamps the stories together while the glue is still hot!” I absorbed from that, that I… am dispensable.

I believed their lies.

Much like a weed, I grow where I want. When I stepped into mercy the Roses all scoffed. Right before the alarms in the garden of “standards” went off. Warning them of a threat near and that the “who or what” Is me, and I will need to leave before I lose all my chances to fit in. For simply being myself.

Let me explain.

My passions are my roots and they tend to get in the way. Roots that have weathered all storms and seasons and survived to find a reason and to see validation in who I am.

I have avoided the mirror for some time now.

Thorns on my skin, grown from long ago, for protection during a time of my life when I needed strong defenses to survive. These have made me….avoidable.

Why do we, more often than not? Suffer the longing to be a standard that ought not to have been? A picture of perfection that was printed then plastered. On all the mirrors that every man and woman has been looking into since they developed a sense of self.

I feel like shrinking myself.

When I am in the presence of anyone anymore. My voice has adopted the habit of crying instead of speaking. It is self-preservation. To prevent people from seeing the make-believe swords and knives. They assumed are the tools I have used, to carve words into a heart of stone.

I have looked into the broken mirror and begged her to reveal the flaws in my face, Which I can blame for the hate they feel towards my personality.

I always knew I was ugly.

I was told that Inside was what counted and I was confident in the reality that I was always working on my character. I lost it though when a part of my soul that I called a friend, told me to ask others what they don’t like about me. So I could fix it for her comfort. I was on a journey before that. A journey of self-awareness and self-improvement.

One that I have been walking Since 18 years old.

When I finally said

“enough is enough”

I spent years fighting one battle named “Chaos” until he could be subdued by only one voice, our voice? There is no I in team. Without them, I become me, and if it’s just me, I cease to be. I hear now that “so few people are drawn to you.” To me? Me…

After hearing that, I took a good long look in the mirror and I could finally see. That Instead of a flower, I…am a weed. For some, it can be hard to see. That when I sow my words, like seeds, I am thirsting for relief and to drown my grief.

Do you see?

I wrote with my blood and a brush. Not on stone but in dust. On the floors so warped and weathered with time, that people have stopped caring, too even bother taking off their shoes, when they walk into the rooms of my mind.

I always wanted to be liked.

To be “the standard”. Until I did what you said and asked people “what about me doesn’t matter?” The answers I got sounded like my new favorite trail mix. I am a mixed bag of desired, adored, brave, offensive, respected, wanted, and imperfect.

You told me in more than 500 characters, on pages I still cannot bring myself to burn, that I was undesirable.

Another standard I found Impossible, is that everyone we meet and everyone you once knew, no matter how much you love them, you cannot keep. And there’s nothing about that, that you can do.

Weeds are desired.

Weeds are desired by those who have looked past society’s loud standards. Those who have heard the voice of the earth finally break through the chatter and clatter. Weeds can be used in medicine and teas and even like flowers some want to be seen, not overwhelmingly so, but enough for someone to maybe pick them and gift them to someone they love, to be loved by.

There’s a change in the clanging and banging on the walls, in the halls of the tunnels I dug.

The tunnels I dug to bury fears and years of tears from the demons I’ve met along the way. They, the sounds that torment me, now hear what I have to say.

We weeds, are not subordinate and unlike what most people teach, we have a purpose, we are valuable, we are important.

I’ve wanted to know. After you stop hating yourself, do you hate them instead? Did you tell them the truth about all the mirrors they shattered in your mind that day? And how you will never say thank you because it wasn’t okay?

Sincerely,

Resilience

[thetrinamarie73]

The Letter

A journey to the moon is a slow and kind climb when your hand in hand with the great divine.

I saw you fall and at least 100 times I saw your legs buckle beneath you and force you to crawl. No road to redemption is perfect but no matter how painful you knew it was worth it. I saw your whole being burdened with bruises and you were ashamed most days for it. I know pain and I know it can slow progress down. You had tunnel vision, didn’t you? You never thought, what you never knew. To expect the unexpected? You didn’t have it in mind. That while your eyes were on the moon. A piece of your soul had broken away and stayed behind.

What does it feel like? losing a friend. Does a broken spirit ever mend? I want to know.

Do your thoughts ever descend?

To the lowest caves, the dens… you have dug in your mind? Where ghosts dwell and dine off our fears. Where demons have been screaming for years. Lies to try and convince us that we are a background character in our own stories.

Did you start to believe that you are unseen?

I heard them when they were yelling at me. Saying,

“You are the inconvenient yet necessary part of the plot, that clamps the stories together while the glue is still hot!” I absorbed from that, that I… am dispensable.

I believed their lies.

Much like a weed, I grow where I want. When I stepped into mercy the Roses all scoffed. Right before the alarms in the garden of “standards” went off. Warning them of a threat near and that the “who or what” Is me, and I will need to leave before I lose all my chances to fit in. For simply being myself.

Let me explain.

My passions are my roots and they tend to get in the way. Roots that have weathered all storms and seasons and survived to find a reason and to see validation in who I am.

I have avoided the mirror for some time now.

Thorns on my skin, grown from long ago, for protection during a time of my life when I needed strong defenses to survive. These have made me….avoidable.

Why do we, more often than not? Suffer the longing to be a standard that ought not to have been? A picture of perfection that was printed then plastered. On all the mirrors that every man and woman has been looking into since they developed a sense of self.

I feel like shrinking myself.

When I am in the presence of anyone anymore. My voice has adopted the habit of crying instead of speaking. It is self-preservation. To prevent people from seeing the make-believe swords and knives. They assumed are the tools I have used, to carve words into a heart of stone.

I have looked into the broken mirror and begged her to reveal the flaws in my face, Which I can blame for the hate they feel towards my personality.

I always knew I was ugly.

I was told that Inside was what counted and I was confident in the reality that I was always working on my character. I lost it though when a part of my soul that I called a friend, told me to ask others what they don’t like about me. So I could fix it for her comfort. I was on a journey before that. A journey of self-awareness and self-improvement.

One that I have been walking Since 18 years old.

When I finally said

“enough is enough”

I spent years fighting one battle named “Chaos” until he could be subdued by only one voice, our voice? There is no I in team. Without them, I become me, and if it's just me, I cease to be. I hear now that “so few people are drawn to you.” To me? Me…

After hearing that, I took a good long look in the mirror and I could finally see. That Instead of a flower, I…am a weed. For some, it can be hard to see. That when I sow my words, like seeds, I am thirsting for relief and to drown my grief.

Do you see?

I wrote with my blood and a brush. Not on stone but in dust. On the floors so warped and weathered with time, that people have stopped caring, too even bother taking off their shoes, when they walk into the rooms of my mind.

I always wanted to be liked.

To be “the standard”. Until I did what you said and asked people “what about me doesn’t matter?” The answers I got sounded like my new favorite trail mix. I am a mixed bag of desired, adored, brave, offensive, respected, wanted, and imperfect.

You told me that I was undesirable.

Another standard I found Impossible, is that everyone we meet and everyone you once knew, no matter how much you love them, you cannot keep. And there’s nothing about that, that you can do.

Weeds are desired.

Weeds are desired by those who have looked past society’s loud standards. Those who have heard the voice of the earth finally break through the chatter and clatter. Weeds can be used in medicine and teas and even like flowers some want to be seen, not overwhelmingly so, but enough for someone to maybe pick them and gift them to someone they love, to be loved by.

There’s a change in the clanging and banging on the walls, in the halls of the tunnels I dug.

The tunnels I dug to bury fears and years of tears from the demons I’ve met along the way. They, the sounds that torment me, now hear what I have to say.

We weeds, are not subordinate and unlike what most people teach, we have a purpose, we are valuable, we are important.

I’ve wanted to know. After you stop hating yourself, do you hate them instead? Did you tell them the truth about all the mirrors they shattered in your mind that day? And how you will never say thank you because it wasn’t okay?

Sincerely,

Resilience