winter’s daughter.

I am Winter’s daughter.

On the exterior a peaceful, enigmatic and slightly intimidating display,

Far beyond the surface lay a dark, cold, eerie complex that never fails to expose itself around this time of year.

Cold to the touch is the soft skin coating my bones.

Bleak nights like the depths of my inevitable depression,

A limitless souvenir of former failures.

Whose presence creeps in the crevices of my mind, impatiently awaiting the merciless storm,

Leaving surrounding beings to fend for themselves;

A domestic war for survival-

A war on domestic terrorism.

barricades.

Have you told her that her legs don’t look anorexic?

Have you told her that she still has her butt?

Have you told her that her hair looks healthy enough?

Or that her face isn’t as pale as it was yesterday?

Try telling her that she isn’t sick and it’s all in her head.

Maybe that will fix her.

Have you told her that she is beautiful lately?

Have you told her that her personality is stunning?

Have you asked how she feels?

Or that her feelings are valid?

Try telling her that she can talk to you if she is having urges.

Maybe this will help her.

 

the pillars of “us”

The scars that I carry are an unforgivable consequence of you,

Those damned words that tore my soul like a lion to its prey.

Those hands that wandered over my body; claiming it your property.

Countless internal scars inflicted from unwanted intruders.

Daily ritualistic arguments enabling my sleep deprivation; going mental.

Isolation, condemnation, deprecation, violation; the pillars of “us”.

Where you climb into the depths of my soul eager to conduct a new experiment-

Attempting to see how much I can endure.

I grow numb realizing the blades aren’t enough to disinfect my skin of you.

Breaking down behind closed doors, hoping that this time, it would be different.

Blacking out behind locked doors, hoping that this time, it would be different.

Years later knowing it never would be different.

The remnants of you still linger on from time to time- don’t you see?

Let this tall barrier hovering around me be a friendly reminder of all that was,

All that is, and all that will be.

the archives of yesterday.

Sometimes I wish my love life was as lively as my self-destructive life.

To be as dedicated to love as I am to self-hate-

Where intimacy does not require blades or scissors,

And the only marks forced upon my legs come from the passionate grasp of another.

To touch only with tender hands.

Exploring the crevices of my body; gently, slowly, adoringly,

With nothing but my own accepting flesh- and perhaps that of others as well.

Where the droplets of blood evaporate into the archives of yesterday,

Never to return.

When the wires of my brain transfix themselves and turn to the greater good of my wellbeing.

Where intimacy does not penetrate my skin, rather, mend my heart.

When my heart opens itself and accepts to be loved.

This would be an accomplishment in itself.

 

she is.

She is a worrier. Let me restate myself. She is a warrior. She observes. She thinks. She fights on. Waters try overflowing her. Others free her. She tries freeing herself. She is trapped. She is a dreamer. A doer. Can she see herself? Why not? You ask for water. She provides the ocean. Waters crash about. She struggles to float. Lightning strikes down. Thunder rolls in. Clouds overhead. Is she dead? She holds on. She breathes in hope. She exhales death. She is emotionally inundated. Screams pout out. No one hears her. That’s okay she says. I’m fine she exclaims. Is that her façade? No one knows anymore. Winds move the current. She goes with it. She is the ocean. Deep, rough, and gentle. She holds the light. She holds the darkness. She speaks in riddles. Some she doesn’t understand. She is a puzzle. Others can’t finish it. It’s better that way. She is weeded out. She is rooted again. It’s a vicious cycle. She is you. She is me.

she.

My mind is the abyss of darkness, daunting thoughts like torrential thunderstorms, where clouds creep in preparing surrounding entities of what is to come, where the calm before the storm is a tease and the heavy rains my dismay, where I am the land, flooded with overwhelming emotions and distorted thoughts, crying out for help but is over powered by the mighty thunder that is at war with lightening- my optimistic savior- who strikes others well but bears no mark on myself and continues to fight on against the current of the storm, where light struggles to creep in to destroy the inner demons that inhabit my mind, body, and soul for the inevitable remainder of my adolescents and dwell in the depths of my soul, leaving it’s scar for the remainder of my existence, all the while, I am left to withstand the current of the storm and grow deeper roots for without a storm, a tree fails to take deeper roots!