how i feel about life, and also i’m sorry

To the people I’m hurting, the ones I’m hurt by, and the people who I have broken,

There are so many pieces of myself that wish to become someone else. I am myself, but I have several separate selves inside of me. I am usually surrounded with this idea that my freedom is found in the gut, that one day I’ll get out of the hole I’ve been digging for the last seventeen years and just run across the expanse of the sun, feet catching fire and not caring. I am careful with whom I let see my ruffled feathers; I try to persuade my body to bend with the wind, but my spine chips every time.

I miss so many people that have fallen out of my life. I used to hate the color blue, because it didn’t feel smooth or warm or even real, and now, it’s yellow that I cant stand. Blue is stitches and patches worn in to the side of my jeans, it’s bloodied knuckles for no reason and flower petals, but from the side of the road on the way home. Blue is my detrimental state, and I feel too whole in it these days. I miss yellow, but am glad to have busted out of it. I am, in a sense, broken into different people now. My head spins just to think of all the changes my life has rolled across in the last year and a half.

Seventeen.

I can’t keep from looking back and letting myself rot. I am perpetually eaten away by the people I cannot see unless I close my eyes. I want dark things more than I need to unhurt the hearts I’ve squeezed a little too tightly.

And pretty soon, pretty words aren’t going to be good enough for me. Pretty soon, I’m going to need something to hit hard like concrete and stick past the slimy surface of what I’ve been skating on.  This is the most terrified I have felt in a while, and I don’t know why. I don’t want to know why, but I think I already have a pretty good idea of it.

I can’t look in a mirror without seeing the cracked shell of a halo, cast along my ears. I can’t feel anymore. I can’t see or be or do because I am not whole enough. I am not enough for my situation, or the people around me, or anything like that. Life has no meaning, at least, not when I’m looking for a reason every night to not swerve off the highway and drive until my truck hits an irrevocable future. I can’t talk like this without wanting to break all the mirrors in my house. I already miss you, and I haven’t even tried to leave yet. (I haven’t really been here for a while.)

More love than I thought possible, all the pretty words and pathetic poetry I write for the wrong reasons, all to You (and You, and You too),

Kate

Author: Katherine Westbrook

Kate. Too cool for school. View all posts by Katherine Westbrook