maturity.

 I was looking through my writing files and found a passage titled 'maturity' written on  the 9th of August 2024, 10:25pm. The following are it's unpolished contents.

Vengeance has always been a virtue in my eyes, as chaos was love.  

The straining of the voice, bruising of the body and sewing of the soul. Love could never be taught without demonstration and while on the podium I’m shunned by each mouth of the audience but encouraged by the intrigue on their faces. I once thought love could never be taught, until I met, saw, heard, felt that love. 

I do not wish to grieve the aftermath of apologies. Like lying on the rocky ground after I’ve given up on crawling because you were nowhere in sight, until a piece of heaven falls upon me and love lifts the rubble off the back of my chest, allowing me to breathe. Drowned by tsunamis, stoned by volcanic ash and every bone breaks with every earthquake. I’m forsaken by love, but by love I am saved.

The sweetness of reconciliation is like cotton candy, those sugared cobwebs I pick apart while I let love watch. The aromatic diffusion of that sugar rush love gives me, transports me back to the day of the fair, all the rides I’ve tested and endured to make sure it was safe. More importantly, to make sure it was fun. Giggling like the child I never got to be, I truly couldn’t wait. Never would I have thought it’d turn into a circus, my pretty parade. Somehow love has me dancing for the rain.

I danced till I dropped and eventually lie drenched. 

All the colours I once knew have been blurred. Everything I was so sure of, I questioned. How could I begin to believe my own thoughts? How could I begin to believe my own memory? How could I believe myself when love never believed me?

Love bled my body dry, however, my soul could not stop seeping. Once weighed on the scales as it was so often, I was always sent back to make a change. I used that second chance to give love all of me. I laid myself out like porcelain plates parallel to the tea, hoping love would drink and take my offering. 

Who I once was drifted from my memory, I was Goddess of the Hunt but see, I’m no better than the past me. My only exercise was chasing after you and when you’d run after me. The hallways would stretch and everything would move just 5 cm away from my reach. The acceptance of pain was both the easiest and hardest part. I would move past it so I didn’t have to let your blood run cold so it could warm up my stale morning tea. I’d love to write a love letter to you, send yours to me with the ink of what could’ve made children vein. Lipstick of the ink of what could’ve been on late nights daydreaming of the perfect look of a dreamgirl. Sandstone crushed in my eyes but I can see that it’s only just a dream, now that you’re not here with me.