but i’m 21.
absolutely nothing is the way i’ve wanted it. my life consists of nothing but unfortunate events. stress, ruin and heartbreak sprinkled with just enough petty insignificancies to keep me skinless and watery eyed. i hate to pull my woe-is-me card, but the hand i’ve been dealt last is nothing but woeful. no drama queen needed.
everything around here burns hotter because nothing i’ve endured could be prevented nor worked around any better than i’ve finessed it. if it wasn’t for my prime survival tactics, would i be here? doubtful, truly.
i don’t act like i’m okay when i’m not. i pull it off very well while i’m still handling things, but when i’ve accepted the row? i admit it. i banish myself from most anything fruitful and anything public. if I don’t want to you see me, you won’t. if i don’t want to speak, i won’t. (let’s talk later on that one, shall we?)
mm. i seemed to have won my way and proved myself through the hazing. i’m better now, still not in a position where i’m content but at least i’m not being fucking sorry. i spent the last two weeks finishing my conclusions. sewing up my last stitches.
Twenty one is an awfully symbolic age for me. I’ve dreamt of my 21st birthday since 2000, declaring to my mother I wanted to earn my stripes as what I knew a new woman. A wild child on the wall, envisioning red thigh high boots and a cleavagey body con. Painting my young successes (then, an architect) and promising myself I deserved it.
I think I cried seven hours & seven rivers September 7th.
Tears for my tested strength. Tears for my lost pride.
I gave a name to every feeling I’ve felt this year.
Gave a title to every being.
Gave a label to every situation.
Clarity hurts, the inevitable hurts, the growth I’ve withered through definitely fucking hurts. What’s done is done. Chapter 20 is indefinitely closed, child. Chin up.
My florals grow from pain, too. I’ve equipped myself with so much game this summer, so much knowledge. My wit kept my soul lively enough to stay afloat. I have a new tackle box I’ve brought home, heavy feminine macho, embellished with jewels of my very own labor. It’s weight is unfelt by my new flex of self survival. There’s not a fucking thing someone can do to me, and I don’t feel undeservingly nice any longer. Who cares for a try? Mm.
my positioning as of now? i’m trying to get back into the motion of school, as university applications open in two weeks. my mental health and physical welfare are getting themselves together. once my last investment turns green, i’m back on that ass.