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Lets Be Real #1

Confession time.

I leave it all out to bare, all the ugly and the beautiful, all the thoughts that I have rattling around, the ones that you’ve thought too, but are too afraid to say. This is my journal, and I invite you to read it.

—–

My anger feels like a simmering pot, one with noodles, the foam keeps rising and rising, but there’s no wooden spoon here to stop it. Eventually, it boils over, creating ugly lines from the water drying around the pot, sticky residue that never quite comes off, despite your best attempts to scrub it. My anger leaves a mark, it simmers and simmers, boiling over despite my best attempts to watch it.

 

I feel, I’m not some heartless monster who doesn’t care about others. But that’s how I come off. I just want to belong, I want people to see the beauty that is nestled between the folds of my fragile heart; the hatred that stems from scorn, the love of all things beautiful, people, nature, art. The tender, tightly weaved nest where I hold all my secrets closest to my heart; and the keyhole, a messy, scratched opening that I’ve tried to open far too much–and too little. I miss the keyhole or use the wrong key, never finding the secret to unlocking what is most precious to me.

 

The sky used to be blue, the grass used to be green, flowers were colorful, enjoyable, fragrant, but not anymore. The sky is an ugly, muddled grey without a hint of the vibrant blue it used to be. The grass is black, slick with the tar I emit. The horrid stench of decay is in the air, and the flowers don’t smell like love anymore. I walk through a field of my own making, dragging my hands through the withering, tall, black grass. I mourn the sweet fragrance of the flowers that once bloomed here, the picnics that were hosted under the once mighty oak tree nestled in the corner of this field. The nightly oak was long since poisoned, the branches snapping, dry, the inside hollowed out and used, there’s nothing left here, and there is no hope of growth.

As I walk in the field of my own making, my mind wanders. What have I done, who has done this to me, where did my love go?

—–

Those are all of my deep thoughts for today, see you next time.

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Hayden Smith, Staff Reporter
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