1. Whenever I stand half naked in front of the mirror, I don’t have the courage to look at my own reflection. I can hear her call my name, asking me to meet her eyes, telling me to look at the monstrosity that she is. But I can’t. I stopped looking at myself ever since someone said that I am not close to being pretty, what more beautiful. That my body is not tailor made for a girl. That I don’t meet the standards of beauty set by the society.
I am a coward.
2. I grew up thinking that all I’ll ever be is a second option. A choice. The second best. And I am not even sure if my name and best should be in one sentence. Or even with the word good. People have always pointed out how my academic prowess is no match to the person whom I share the same blood. People have made the little six year old girl believe that no matter what she does, it will never be enough.
I am never enough.
3. I am far too kind, far too nice, far too forgiving, far too understanding, far too compassionate, far too helpful that sometimes, I forget that there is no assurance that someone will be there for me when I’m slowly falling into a dark abyss. I always forget (on purpose) that I need to save a little something for myself. I end up not leaving a piece, a thread, a speck of who I am to keep me afloat in this ocean of frenzied emotions.
I have given all of me.
4. My midnight thoughts are still of him. I still find myself thinking, writing, crying for him. No matter how many times I twist and turn on my bed, the empty ceiling still reminds me of the moon and how I once made it my muse. A big part of my heart still aches over the unanswered questions and continuous what if’s. My right hand still trembles over the idea of writing for him once more. The songs still remind me of him and I continue to lie awake at night, thinking maybe he’s thinking of me too.
I’m a little not over him.
5. Words have always been a refuge. Poems are my escape, my bittersweet enroute to the reality that no one really sees through my facade. I string letters together to create a melody that sings me to sleep when the quiet sobbing awakens the monster under my bed. I bite the insides of my cheeks until I taste the blood which vividly paints the sorrow, the despair, the hurt, the melancholy — everything and I run to my refuge, letting the blood create purple prose.
I can’t stop writing.
6. I breathe. I feel. I cry. I bleed. I hide. I smile.
I am still alive."
“Humor is a common defense mechanism. Some funny people like to make themselves and others laugh because it keeps them from crying. It distracts people from the real issues and pokes fun at things to minimize the impact. Albeit temporarily.”
I think it’s so sad when students stop caring at the end of the year. Like ” I don’t give a Fuck if I fail, I just want school to be over” but you can tell they care. They do. BUT the pressure, expectations and the stress that they have been experiencing early in the semester has totally killed their motivation. We spend 9 months studying for a test that we lose motivation for anyways.”