I’m wrapped up in my blanket that feels like a cloud holding me close. The soft glow of my crystal lamp gives off enough light to see my words, but it’s intimate enough that I don’t feel exposed. The pen strokes are furiously outside the lines, and it’s unsettling not having any reason or rhythm for this writing. Devoid of emotion. Words only scratching the surface.
Like an adult version of hide and seek, I’m constantly seeking myself and waiting to be found. I don’t know how to rip myself raw, and it’s not for lack of trying. It’s not that I’m even afraid. I just truly don’t know how to hold the box cutter to strip the cardboard cutouts hiding the real me.
How do small, fragile hands that cramp from any pressure possibly grasp something that can be used as a weapon?
What I truly want to explore is the vintage wooden treasure chest under my bed, the one storing my cobwebs. A web I’m not afraid to get tangled in, and that I welcome. I want to write about the click of the lock, the creak opening a wave of emotions, my fingers submerged in an ocean of tears that are decades old. How the humans I’ve lost still live there, how desperately my heart needs this visitor.
I want to write that I often wonder if my nature is human. I want to ask myself if I’ll ever separate the collective and being seen as not special.
I want to write about this existence, and how it’s more than seeing any writing on the wall, that it’s about seeing a painting of you. I want to write about finding a spot in my nature, not allowing myself to become a piece of decor that I barely glance at anymore.
I want to write about being held down by dark entities, that I’m done writing about my inability to turn off the light. I want to write about how humans drink my softness, but my heart goes unnoticed. I’d rather write that humans see through me, but never see my wings.