Loving had never made me feel so lonely, and living never made me feel so lifeless. 
Patience was scarce and I was desperate for rest, and the only peace I found was in romanticizing my death.  
Hate was addictive, but only towards myself, because I bought into the beauty standards that society sells. 
 
At 10 I didn't know that it was rape and not love, because I believed what he told me until he hurt me for fun. 
12 and I hoped that my heart surgery would fail, because at least it'd get me out of writing fair wells. 
14 and I wondered “What if infanticide would have won?” or “What if my parents had never given me up?” 
16 and my wrists were an escape from the numb, and the only things I believed in were my sports and bulimia. 
18 and my stories grew older and untold, because no one had time to be friends with broken souls.  
19 and 1 month and I feel most alive; now I know how to live, and not just survive. 
 
I have learned to be empathetic, to offer merciful forgiveness, to give multiple chances, to be loyal in relationships,  
To love well and be kind, to communicate and compromise, to maintain my composure, and to protect my peace of mind.   
After all that I’ve healed from, with faith, grace, and time, not a day goes by that I don't appreciate my life. 



Thursday 18 July 2024