The Loss of Oneself
She had tears for breakfast,
The salt leaving her tongue parched.
In a world full of hate,
Hatred of self was the first uninvited guest.
Feelings of inadequacy overflow,
The dam protecting her heart
Broken by none other than herself.
Nourished by playing with perfect dolls,
Media only had to prick her finger
To shatter her ideas of self
And prevent her thoughts
From extending past the surface.
Of all losses,
The loss of oneself is perhaps
The most blurred.
Because to not know who you are
Is to become a shadow of the world.
A clone without humanity
And no certainty of recovery.
Once Upon a Time
Once upon a time, she was a child.
Pure and innocent.
Loved by all who saw her,
Seen as nothing but a lovely blond girl,
A princess in the making.
It was only a matter of time before
She was tired of her sandbox and of her playhouse.
Overcome with the desires to burn her pretend castle
And cry her imperfect tears all over it.
Everyone told her to treasure this time.
She grew out of her dresses and dolls.
And in her grief,
Turned her interests to destruction.
For she, caught up in who she could have been, was a mourner,
One who was advised to always, always smile.
She was real, not some fictional princess.
Instead of saving her people,
She held them capture.
Opposed to protecting her fragile castle,
She lit the fire herself.
And to think,
All it took was
She was defiant,
A real go-getter.
She was blaze in the Arctic.
Fueled by crushed hopes.
She was an explosion.
She was the grenade
That started this whole mess.
She Only Wants to Heal
Feet pound the pavement
Searching for something wild
The noises of machines fill her ears
But she wants to go where the hummingbirds are
She sprints through openings in glass and stone
Only to find herself more trapped than before
Those gadgets make her sick
She only wants to heal
Run through the city and pass the border
Now she is lost but she will find her way
She veers off the road
Into the woods she goes
It is among the trees where she can finally breathe
The grass is a rug on her child toes
Here she can walk without the need to rush
Time is nonexistent
You need only find the place
That big of a deal
The water drips
As my sheets crinkle around my legs
The fan whirrs in the corner
And snores echo from the rooms down the hall
Reaching crescendos and falling again
Out of rhythm
The reality of the day hits me
While I peel off my cracked nail polish
The air seems too clean for this place
This corrupt world
The country is the land of the stars
Of late nights spent in pickup trucks
I used to worry about my future
Now I am scared for today
Career anguishes faded into doubts about
Even getting into college
The city is deafening in its influential advertisements
Instilling the belief of being one as being the same
I do not understand why everyone desires
To be the same
Should I have to want this, too?
Feathers waltz in the wind
Why am I not dancing?
I have always wanted the same thing
I’m probably too boring for this world
There’s someone standing in the corner
Watching over them
I don’t care
I’d rather be in the light
In the end, we can agree and disagree
Is it really that big of a deal?
Losing What is Lost
They say I have amnesia – retrograde amnesia, to be exact. I cannot remember anything that happened to me before waking up to sunlight on my face and a boy screaming. They say he is my brother; I don’t remember.
Someone slipped up one day, a guy around my age named Elijah. He was telling me how we were friends and that I lost my memory because of an ischemic stroke. I had tried to interfere in a fight between my prom date and my ex-boyfriend, Oliver, – “Classic Alice,” Elijah had said then – and my ex had shoved me out of the way a little too hard. That was when I collapsed, though it wasn’t just from the shove. I had started speaking ‘gibberish’ before the fight broke out, but it had all happened so quickly that my friends didn’t have time to be concerned. I stumbled between the guys before the coincidental moment.
Because it wasn’t my lack of balance or inability to speak that had me brought to the hospital, it was the blood streaming down my split lip. I was lucky that Oliver had shoved me, otherwise it would have been longer before I had gotten help.
I’m lucky; I know I am. I have only been in the hospital for six days and I can already remember traces of the confusion I felt during the fight. The feeling of my feet floating in air before being grabbed back to the ground. The people dancing around me in a circle.
The thing is: that’s not all I remember. I have had brief flashes of an angular face yelling at me, grabbing my arms so that red crescent moons were left behind on pallid skin. Dark hair – my hair – flying around my arms only to be pulled behind me, yanking on my scalp.
I may not remember everything right now, but I know that I don’t want to. I think something bad happened before prom, and I’m not certain anyone else knows, except for Oliver. Because, it is his face that I see (according to the pictures brought to me), and, as desperately as my family and Elijah want me to regain my memory, I can’t bring myself to want the same. People bringing in pictures from before makes my situation worse – because it’s helping. This current guilt is nothing compared to the pain from the past.
The more my memory comes back, the more I treasure my amnesia. It doesn’t make any sense except to say that I am beginning to believe that I am too weak to handle the truth of my life. I am terrified, and I can’t remember feeling a similar emotion except for in my lost memories that are beginning to not feel so lost.