take this time to reflect, reflect on what you have done, reflect on what you haven't done. think of the regrets. and the past pains. phantom glories and tainted smiles. tell me the truth and say that you hide behind jokes that shamelessly make fun of your own damn self to mask that bottomless pit of insecurity that rots in you; tell me the truth and say that all you want to do is sleep underneath the covers because you do not think the world is worthy of you. tell me the truth and say that for all the laughter and the happiness and the goddamn fucking singing, all you want to do is write your goddamn poetry and cry. but maybe that's okay. maybe this is therapeutic. but that's all it will ever be, and maybe this is all you will ever be: reduced and hidden behind your white cupboards. but it does not have to be this way. when your mother looks at you in the corner of her eye and sees you gnawing at yourself from inside out and turns away; when your father takes the time to tell you anything, but does not take the time to ask you everything; when your brother is nothing but a contact on your phone; remember all of this and think that it does not have to be this way. and that, perhaps, it is not you, not you, not you, not you, not you, not goddamn you that is at fault. maybe you just have to open the door. you don't have to stop crying so soon. but maybe you can open the windows. turn on the lights. walk around the backyard. look up at the endless sky. this house—this dirt yellow end-of-the-cul-de-sac home of yours—blankets you in this pain, this loneliness. it's not so easy leaving it because life isn't that fucking easy; sometimes it's your own self that prevents you from leaving. but you should always know that there are neighbours that will wave at you and joke with you from behind silver wired fences; live, growing trees to shade you from a blinding sun, and a magical sky with musical birds. because while you live in pain, that is not the only thing that you deserve to know. there is a world out there. and again—it's not easy. it's not easy to say good-bye, not even to the things that hurt us. but if you open that door, or climb that fence, or breathe in the wind that rushes by you from the window, you will realize that there is a whole neighbourhood here. and when you are ready to fully heal: we can finally move houses, my love.
YOU ARE READING
I, Girl
Poetryi am my own god, my own spirit, my own prayer. -- a complete series of 44 poems concerning girlhood, dread, and catholic guilt.
