which is why this feels odd because the truth is all I have is love
Striving to be better. http://sincerely-soallowed.tumblr.com/
Monday, March 18, 2019
I used to hate myself
The feeling is still familiar,
like a blanket from the same childhood home that created this trauma you struggle with in the first place.
I know myself and my destructive habits
but these parts of myself do not feel like their origins are within me, so where do they come from?
There are days when it feels as if I've never left home,
That this world is a tiny cottage surrounded by trees that prevent me from seeing through them,
Woods so dense that my scream are inaudible, but the forest is filled with life that I can't touch.
It's not that I'm afraid of a life on my own, but that I don't know where a life on my own would begin.
Like eating the same meal everyday for years, but what else could you eat?
Instead of tasting unfamiliar flavors, you just don't eat at all.
Lack of nourishment does not seem like such an issue in a body that isn't your own--
A body that disappoints you in the mirror, that you've accepted but still refuse to love.
And the thoughts that are yours don't feel like your own, but instead those of a character that you relate to,
But do not always admire or understand.
Yes, her and I share passions, but is the way that we act on them the same?
Is my indifference to my ending something of concern? or just a phase because what the fuck is happening to me right now...
Sometimes I do wish that I could run away from everyone I know,
Because when I think of a life of my own, it seems impossible with others.
But would it really be a life of my own if I ran away from the things that do make me feel like myself?
The sweetness of a life of solitude is all-too-tempting.
From what I've learned, selfishness has always meant failure.
But to rip away these restraints would require hurting the ones I love.
A scale that will never be balanced, even moving the grains of sand one. by. one..
Walking a tightrope attached to neither an end nor a beginning, so what's the point of walking?
And the solution to these things seems so simple,
If only I had my own room to lock myself up in, where I can break out of this tiny cottage.
Because in my own room I could be anything, I could leave this world.
For hours, I could finally take the time to acquaint myself with me.
Accepting my existence is simple. Loving my truth is not.
For 22 years, I have insisted on pouring myself into others, but now I am dry.
To recollect all I have given would truly be impossible. Creating something from nothing defies the laws of nature.
Removing reality from my life seems to be the answer, so I'm sorry if I disappoint you.
like a blanket from the same childhood home that created this trauma you struggle with in the first place.
I know myself and my destructive habits
but these parts of myself do not feel like their origins are within me, so where do they come from?
There are days when it feels as if I've never left home,
That this world is a tiny cottage surrounded by trees that prevent me from seeing through them,
Woods so dense that my scream are inaudible, but the forest is filled with life that I can't touch.
It's not that I'm afraid of a life on my own, but that I don't know where a life on my own would begin.
Like eating the same meal everyday for years, but what else could you eat?
Instead of tasting unfamiliar flavors, you just don't eat at all.
Lack of nourishment does not seem like such an issue in a body that isn't your own--
A body that disappoints you in the mirror, that you've accepted but still refuse to love.
And the thoughts that are yours don't feel like your own, but instead those of a character that you relate to,
But do not always admire or understand.
Yes, her and I share passions, but is the way that we act on them the same?
Is my indifference to my ending something of concern? or just a phase because what the fuck is happening to me right now...
Sometimes I do wish that I could run away from everyone I know,
Because when I think of a life of my own, it seems impossible with others.
But would it really be a life of my own if I ran away from the things that do make me feel like myself?
The sweetness of a life of solitude is all-too-tempting.
From what I've learned, selfishness has always meant failure.
But to rip away these restraints would require hurting the ones I love.
A scale that will never be balanced, even moving the grains of sand one. by. one..
Walking a tightrope attached to neither an end nor a beginning, so what's the point of walking?
And the solution to these things seems so simple,
If only I had my own room to lock myself up in, where I can break out of this tiny cottage.
Because in my own room I could be anything, I could leave this world.
For hours, I could finally take the time to acquaint myself with me.
Accepting my existence is simple. Loving my truth is not.
For 22 years, I have insisted on pouring myself into others, but now I am dry.
To recollect all I have given would truly be impossible. Creating something from nothing defies the laws of nature.
Removing reality from my life seems to be the answer, so I'm sorry if I disappoint you.
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