No. You cannot have me. Not while I'm still so broken. And even still. That word does no justice.
No. Not while im still fragile. Sensitive to the touch
Beyond that of collateral damage
Misappropriated, disintegrated, more than I could bear.
The darkest parts of my mind, all consuming. Wildly tainted
Cold nose tips, salty tear drips
Blood stained glass
shattered from the past
Glass shard distortion of who I used to be
No
Not while I'm still damaged
Not while loneliness is all engulfing
Joining with the darkness
Swallowing me whole
And I'm lost
These hands, these feet, this body aren't my own
Foreign. Stranger
Who's dwelling inside the hollowness?
Love was never a tenant
No warmth
No. Not while I'm cryptic
Icy
Cold
While my touch sends menacing shivers down your spine
And not in the good way
It's parasitic
Insanely infectious
And not in a good way
No
Just wait
Wait until
The heat of the sun begins to warm my fingertips and numbness is no longer present. Rays sweetly licking my face bringing back it's color and fullness
Until there's no chance of me dragging you down to the darkness
Where everything lays limitless
Indispensable. Free
Until I no longer have to cling to the bitterness of the past to feel something. To be something
Until I could let go all of the good and all of the bad. To be satisfied with nothing than pacified with poison.
Just wait
Just wait
Friday, December 21, 2012
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
No Shame November
Naivety. Believing that ambulances were free and pure white Christmases.
Naivety turns into cold nights without blankets. Innocence slowly changing into ignorance. It is that, that kills me.
We were desperate. Any little thing we felt, we called love. I always wanted to be the one to meet him waiting for me. Not me waiting hours outside, feeling like I've made a mistake.
"If it feels right then it'll just come natural."
Forced.
Everything was forced.
Everything within myself screamed no but I dragged my body through it. Aimlessly. Shamefully. At least he always was. Never held my hand. Nor did he tell anyone.
A secret.
I obliged.
He can't be totally at fault. I'm the one who lied. To myself. Whole-hearted deception with a mask painted on to make it seem like nothing was wrong.
This is love. Lust eats you alive from the inside. I'm hollow. Body flailing and swaying. Another piece stolen, shattered, and spread. Who is she now? On her knees frantically trying to put the pieces back together while he glares down at her and nods in pleasure. Yet no trace of it on his eyes. This is happy. You become so tuned into his satisfaction, you neglect yours.
It doesn't matter, you don't matter.
No longer hanging from a thread, but endlessly falling. I'm not sure if I want to fall into nothing or finally plummet. I'd rather dangle. At least there was some kind of connection there. No matter how thin.
Hunger. Never satiated. Keep going. Don't stop. Overdose. Refill. Start again. "Do you like it?" I hate it.
Lost. So far gone. Disconnect. Disengage. No warmth here. Just come (on) already. Funny how this all happens while we're the most "connected."
The insidious onslaught of guilt.
Every.
Single.
Time.
I never knew why. It plagued me. Shame follows her. Walking in as one person. Shirt tossed. Jeans strewn. Peeling off. Picking off more and more pieces. Walking out another.
Half-wrapped present. Half baked. Half sewn. Half glued. Half. Half-personed. Who am I?
Lost. Arms and legs bound. Lips silenced by the pain. I creep inside the recesses of my brain and try to remove myself. I can't stop the tears as the already-crumbling finally crumbles. In his hands. To my expense.
I can never be a flower.
It's hard to believe the word "beautiful." Even harder to believe the word "love."
Not when trapped,desperate,shame,dirty,fucked,ugly,putrid all rush in at the same time. It's hard to see the "ever-after" with "happily" tacked on somewhere. Where's the fun in forever if it doesn't exist? What's the point in tomorrow if it never comes?
But I'm free now. Right? No longer chained. Only by memory am I reminded. I guess I'm free.
I feel so funny. I feel so sad.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Lust Gluttons
You can't go through life constantly testing the waters because you'll never jump in. You'll always stay in the safety zone, sticking a couple toes in and quickly pulling them back out when it's not desirable. You'll never have the courage to dive in and see what its like to swim. You'll never get a chance to see what it's like to plunge to the very bottom and make your way back up.
I've met a lot of people like this. Within the realm of casual dating and "hooking up", guys and girls here get their chance to test everything out. There's nothing wrong with sampling the goods. Yet, if that's all you care about, just sampling the goods and moving on to something else and repeat, what is there to get out of that? No one wants to be tied down in college especially not the first couple of years, but what I don't understand is why keep up with the game for so long?
It's a cycle that breeds off of instant gratification. The all-too-familiar "Hit it and quit it" phenomenon is widespread. I'm slightly surprised at the trend being so popular among women but if Rihanna can sing about "Cockiness" and Rude Boys, I guess that explains it. Either way, is there anything fruitful to come out of that? The constant "drive by" relationships? Then again, who wants to attach so much meaning to something that's so easy to get?
"Lust gluttons" I call them. Thriving off of pride and the actions are excessive of lust. The cheating. The lying. The growing numbers of "bodies." Hyper-sexed. Over-sexed. Till eventually we've overdosed. Desensitizing so much that we are romantically numb. We haven't the faintest idea of what love is yet try to correlate it to what we hear in songs or see on television. We like pictures and post memes but miss the whole concept entirely. By circumstance, experience, or otherwise, WE are fifty shades of messed up. Emotionally raped. Over and over. No one wants to go in too deep. No one wants to afford the energy nor the time. No one wants to feel the immense pressure of love for fear of getting crushed. No one wants their minds to go there, but have no problem letting their bodies do so. So we splash around on the outside. We try every fish. Feeling like we are full, yet walking around as hollow shells of ourselves. Only exisiting but never really feeling alive. Never satiated. Always wanting.
Is that how we really want to live?
Where is the fullness? Where is the feeling of being whole? Where is satisfaction in taking the risk of letting someone in and they turn out to be everything you wanted? What's so wrong with choosing wrong the first time around? Or second? Or third? Fourth?
I blame "Trust Issues"
Everyone has them and we're crippled by them.
Suddenly, we're all philospohical geniuses who can synthesize love with a couple of rhymes and verses. Yet, we can't even process the notion for ourselves. Often mixing up what we need and what we want. What is right and what feels right. What we think is love and what we know as lust.
We are the Lust Gluttons. Lord help us all.
I've met a lot of people like this. Within the realm of casual dating and "hooking up", guys and girls here get their chance to test everything out. There's nothing wrong with sampling the goods. Yet, if that's all you care about, just sampling the goods and moving on to something else and repeat, what is there to get out of that? No one wants to be tied down in college especially not the first couple of years, but what I don't understand is why keep up with the game for so long?
It's a cycle that breeds off of instant gratification. The all-too-familiar "Hit it and quit it" phenomenon is widespread. I'm slightly surprised at the trend being so popular among women but if Rihanna can sing about "Cockiness" and Rude Boys, I guess that explains it. Either way, is there anything fruitful to come out of that? The constant "drive by" relationships? Then again, who wants to attach so much meaning to something that's so easy to get?
"Lust gluttons" I call them. Thriving off of pride and the actions are excessive of lust. The cheating. The lying. The growing numbers of "bodies." Hyper-sexed. Over-sexed. Till eventually we've overdosed. Desensitizing so much that we are romantically numb. We haven't the faintest idea of what love is yet try to correlate it to what we hear in songs or see on television. We like pictures and post memes but miss the whole concept entirely. By circumstance, experience, or otherwise, WE are fifty shades of messed up. Emotionally raped. Over and over. No one wants to go in too deep. No one wants to afford the energy nor the time. No one wants to feel the immense pressure of love for fear of getting crushed. No one wants their minds to go there, but have no problem letting their bodies do so. So we splash around on the outside. We try every fish. Feeling like we are full, yet walking around as hollow shells of ourselves. Only exisiting but never really feeling alive. Never satiated. Always wanting.
Is that how we really want to live?
Where is the fullness? Where is the feeling of being whole? Where is satisfaction in taking the risk of letting someone in and they turn out to be everything you wanted? What's so wrong with choosing wrong the first time around? Or second? Or third? Fourth?
I blame "Trust Issues"
Everyone has them and we're crippled by them.
Suddenly, we're all philospohical geniuses who can synthesize love with a couple of rhymes and verses. Yet, we can't even process the notion for ourselves. Often mixing up what we need and what we want. What is right and what feels right. What we think is love and what we know as lust.
We are the Lust Gluttons. Lord help us all.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Identité
From the moment I stepped foot on campus, my identity was always questioned.
It was at a Penn African Student Association (PASA) meeting that probed it. While in discussion, everyone knew exactly what country they wanted to be identified with. I had to question myself, "Who do I identify with?"
I was born here, in the United States. My mother is Trinidadian. My father is also American with some Bajan roots on his father's side. Although this is the case, I could never comfortably claim who I was.
A lot of friends back home disregard their American-ness and embrace their Caribbean or African heritage. Don't get me wrong, being well informed of your roots gives you an upperhand in uncovering yourself with a historical reference. Therefore, when asked "Where are you from?", sometimes I'd say Trinidad. It wasn't exactly wrong. My mother is the one who raised me so I inherited her Trinidadian culture and knowledge. Whenever asked for specifics, I'd claim my mother's region, my mother's city, and my mother's road. It's like I was living a foreign life vicariously through my mother's past. People liked using countries as a common-ground, especially in the Caribbean. Basically, if we shared the same island, we probably went to the same primary school together and are probably long-lost classmates. In the states, it's just a way to locate and belong to your country-people. Friendship by association. It was automatic.
After a while, it didn't feel quite right. So, I just started telling people I was born here then mentioning my mother being from Trinidad. It was more of a mouthful yet much more accurate to say. I'm fine being a Yankee*. Trinidad was always in my back-pocket when needed.
As many may know, the Black community at Penn is small (I use "Black" loosely here). Therefore, the Caribbean population within that community is especially scarce. Seeing that being Trini is a part of me, I want to find others here too. It's only natural. There was an instance where, during introductions, I heard this guy speak and I could tell by his accent alone that he was Trini. So, bypassing the whole "Are you from Trinidad?" scheme, I asked him, "Which part of Trinidad are you from?" In the coldest tone possible, he replied "Which part of you is Trini?" Ouch. I've been caught. An American claiming Trinidad being called out by a native. Mama's background can't save me now. It was amazing how strong my urge to defend myself was. He was only a stranger, I had nothing to prove to him. But when he only saw me for the American I was and didn't even bother to consider any Trini in me, I felt offended. It surprised me how hurt I was by this.
I never want to come off as fake or false-claim when speaking of Trinidad which is why I had only been mentioning Trinidad ever-so often. I never want to be one of those people who name every calypso song and soca monarch. Who wear red, white, and black religiously. Who put on this fake accent that only seems to come up whenever they're conveniently around Trinis. To me, those people feel like they have something to prove and by doing this, they're proving how much they're NOT.
I don't do any of those things. Yet I got called out like I did.
Am I allowed to be nationalistic of a country of which I was not born in? What's so wrong with being proud of my mother's homeland? I love the spicy-sweet rhythms of soca. It is the melodic perfume that is so gracefully accompanied by the aroma of curry and tamarind. I love the tantalizing pang of the steel drum and the vibrant singy song accents of the people. Why can't that be a part of me although I'm not directly tied to it? More so, why couldn't I do this without being disapproved by others? That eludes me.
I've tried to look at my home country from a different standpoint. Initially, claiming America just didn't seem like enough. Trinidad is a part of me, supposedly false-claimed or not, I'm going to embrace it. However, American values and morals, although not always agreeable, I must accept as a part of me as well. Although I have tried, to completely disregard that part of myself would be crippling to my identity. Finally, it clicked. This is who I want to be. The two (Trini/American) can co-exist.
I am young America, I am black America, I am Afro-America, and I am Caribbean-America. All entities exist as one, intertwined. Who says I have to be one or the other. There are no defined lines. Everything spills over and mixes in with one another forming me and molding me into my identity. Trinidad is no longer in my back-pocket and neither is America. They are both kept close to my heart. This is me.
So, let me re-introduce myself. I'm Shakele Seaton, a cute little Yankee with a zest of sweet T&T.
*term used by Trinidadians to define an American
It was at a Penn African Student Association (PASA) meeting that probed it. While in discussion, everyone knew exactly what country they wanted to be identified with. I had to question myself, "Who do I identify with?"
I was born here, in the United States. My mother is Trinidadian. My father is also American with some Bajan roots on his father's side. Although this is the case, I could never comfortably claim who I was.
A lot of friends back home disregard their American-ness and embrace their Caribbean or African heritage. Don't get me wrong, being well informed of your roots gives you an upperhand in uncovering yourself with a historical reference. Therefore, when asked "Where are you from?", sometimes I'd say Trinidad. It wasn't exactly wrong. My mother is the one who raised me so I inherited her Trinidadian culture and knowledge. Whenever asked for specifics, I'd claim my mother's region, my mother's city, and my mother's road. It's like I was living a foreign life vicariously through my mother's past. People liked using countries as a common-ground, especially in the Caribbean. Basically, if we shared the same island, we probably went to the same primary school together and are probably long-lost classmates. In the states, it's just a way to locate and belong to your country-people. Friendship by association. It was automatic.
After a while, it didn't feel quite right. So, I just started telling people I was born here then mentioning my mother being from Trinidad. It was more of a mouthful yet much more accurate to say. I'm fine being a Yankee*. Trinidad was always in my back-pocket when needed.
As many may know, the Black community at Penn is small (I use "Black" loosely here). Therefore, the Caribbean population within that community is especially scarce. Seeing that being Trini is a part of me, I want to find others here too. It's only natural. There was an instance where, during introductions, I heard this guy speak and I could tell by his accent alone that he was Trini. So, bypassing the whole "Are you from Trinidad?" scheme, I asked him, "Which part of Trinidad are you from?" In the coldest tone possible, he replied "Which part of you is Trini?" Ouch. I've been caught. An American claiming Trinidad being called out by a native. Mama's background can't save me now. It was amazing how strong my urge to defend myself was. He was only a stranger, I had nothing to prove to him. But when he only saw me for the American I was and didn't even bother to consider any Trini in me, I felt offended. It surprised me how hurt I was by this.
I never want to come off as fake or false-claim when speaking of Trinidad which is why I had only been mentioning Trinidad ever-so often. I never want to be one of those people who name every calypso song and soca monarch. Who wear red, white, and black religiously. Who put on this fake accent that only seems to come up whenever they're conveniently around Trinis. To me, those people feel like they have something to prove and by doing this, they're proving how much they're NOT.
I don't do any of those things. Yet I got called out like I did.
Am I allowed to be nationalistic of a country of which I was not born in? What's so wrong with being proud of my mother's homeland? I love the spicy-sweet rhythms of soca. It is the melodic perfume that is so gracefully accompanied by the aroma of curry and tamarind. I love the tantalizing pang of the steel drum and the vibrant singy song accents of the people. Why can't that be a part of me although I'm not directly tied to it? More so, why couldn't I do this without being disapproved by others? That eludes me.
I've tried to look at my home country from a different standpoint. Initially, claiming America just didn't seem like enough. Trinidad is a part of me, supposedly false-claimed or not, I'm going to embrace it. However, American values and morals, although not always agreeable, I must accept as a part of me as well. Although I have tried, to completely disregard that part of myself would be crippling to my identity. Finally, it clicked. This is who I want to be. The two (Trini/American) can co-exist.
I am young America, I am black America, I am Afro-America, and I am Caribbean-America. All entities exist as one, intertwined. Who says I have to be one or the other. There are no defined lines. Everything spills over and mixes in with one another forming me and molding me into my identity. Trinidad is no longer in my back-pocket and neither is America. They are both kept close to my heart. This is me.
So, let me re-introduce myself. I'm Shakele Seaton, a cute little Yankee with a zest of sweet T&T.
*term used by Trinidadians to define an American
Friday, September 28, 2012
Jarred Heart Maybe?
I've had "Bury My Heart" stuck in my head all morning. I understand what you're say K.Michelle. Bury it away so no one could even think of touching it. But why bury it?
What about a glass jar? Then, it wouldn't get dirty or infected and it could take its time to heal. Put the jar in a high, safe place so no one can touch it until you take it down and give it to them. The repercussions? Buried or in a glass jar, you're still walking around heartless for a long time.
First, it's safe to assume that you would want to bury a wounded, bleeding, broken heart. To bury it is to cover it with more dirt, making it prone to infection, worms, and further suffocation. To bury a heart is an arduous task because it's to bury feelings. Suppress them. If this is an attempt at making it heal faster, this is not very sterile condition. Of course, immediately after getting hurt, some people just want to numb any kind feelings, thus burying them. However, those negative feelings always find a way to resurface (loneliness and helplessness always seem to resurface with her).
What about a glass jar? Then, it wouldn't get dirty or infected and it could take its time to heal. Put the jar in a high, safe place so no one can touch it until you take it down and give it to them. The repercussions? Buried or in a glass jar, you're still walking around heartless for a long time.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Hair
I cut my hair. All of it. It was crazy. It was maddening. It was risky. It was liberating.
Everyone had something to say about it.
Upon the frenzy I was experiencing while donning my new hairstyle, my encounter with a friend is something that sticks out the most. He asked "What are you going to do with it now?" I said "Grow it out." He said "Why? Because that's what you think you're supposed to do?" That really made me think. He then told me "Do what you're happy with doing, not with what you think you're expected to do." Then I realized, my hair could grow and I could cut it again. It could be an afro and I could cut it again. I could put twists in and shave the sides, then cut it again. It could be down my back and I could cut it again. I could do anything I very well please. It was my choice to make. My style to rock. My hair to wear. Mine. No one else's. They don't have to care for it. They don't have to wash it. They don't have to comb it. This is mine.
I feel like me cutting my hair was more of a big deal for everyone else than it was for me. Everyone is still shocked. Surprisingly they're impressed too. They keep asking "Why?" Well, I could happily walk in the rain at my own speed. I could dance at parties and my hair would never show how much I've sweat. I could wash it at anytime I want. There are no boundaries here that were once set on my relaxed hair. I could wear cute fedoras. I could wear big earrings or none at all and still feel beautiful (earrings seem to be a big gender marker with shaved hair. I'm no longer worried about being mistaken for a man). I could feel invincible.
When someone asks me why I cut my hair, I can tell them many more things. I can say that I didn't believe that "it's painful to be beautiful", and by pain I meant scorching my scalp with heat and chemicals just for a straightened outcome. I can say that I didn't want to deal with having my hair matted to my scalp after a bad burn or waste hundreds of dollars to have it sewn in for me. I can say that my hair was tired, dry, brittle, and therefore breaking as a result of years of perming it. I can say that the decision to have straight hair was made for me through years of brainwash and loathing and now, I've decided to make my own decisions with MY hair. I can say I was finally woman enough to make a choice about how I wanted to look. No one else's input matters.
I'm delighted to be joining in the ever-growing movement that is natural hair. With the straight hair, I cut away all of the chains of conformity, guilt, insecurity, frustration, and self hatred that has manifested over the years. They've clung and held me down for far too long. The stigmas have indeed "stung" me while stereotypes wrote me off as ugly and inapt of having long hair. Our ancestors have forcibly rode that "field slave vs house slave" boat, but our generation has jumped right back on and reinvented it into the infamous "Team lightskinned vs Team darkskinned" battle. Among the many variations of which ever "skin" everyone was, I was supposed to fall into the "undesirable" category of a "darkskinned" girl. However, as of now, while I'm coming into my own, all of that is non-existent. Yes my skin is dark, were my ancestors not African? Yes, my hair is nappy, once again, were my ancestors not African? We only want to feel bad when we talk about slavery in history classes. But when it comes to our social culture, we dehumanize each other with the very same labels. With this and many other things taken into account, yes, I will wear red lipstick. Yes, I will shave my head and dye it blonde. Yes, I will do all of the things society (or whomever) tells me I can't do and do it with the grace of a beautiful black woman. No lightskins or darkskins, just black.
Strength comes from embracing what's within. Everyday is a step towards loving myself. Truth be told, I was cautious about cutting my hair at first. One main concern? I didn't want to lose my friends (preposterous I know but a very true reality to me). However, when I realized that people come and go and that it is I who will have to accept myself, my fears disintegrated into nothing.
People have called me brave. I should have asked why. If utilizing my right to have a choice in how I looked was bravery, then so be it. Je suis une femme réincarné. I am a woman reborn. Instead of looking at myself as another follower of natural hair, I see myself as a pioneer of a personal movement. Moving forward, shining my light towards advancement and hoping that light can touch others. What audacity I must have to think I could be elegant, black, and beautiful.
They say that a woman's hair is her crowning glory. So does the lack thereof make me any less a queen?
I think not.
Everyone had something to say about it.
Upon the frenzy I was experiencing while donning my new hairstyle, my encounter with a friend is something that sticks out the most. He asked "What are you going to do with it now?" I said "Grow it out." He said "Why? Because that's what you think you're supposed to do?" That really made me think. He then told me "Do what you're happy with doing, not with what you think you're expected to do." Then I realized, my hair could grow and I could cut it again. It could be an afro and I could cut it again. I could put twists in and shave the sides, then cut it again. It could be down my back and I could cut it again. I could do anything I very well please. It was my choice to make. My style to rock. My hair to wear. Mine. No one else's. They don't have to care for it. They don't have to wash it. They don't have to comb it. This is mine.
I feel like me cutting my hair was more of a big deal for everyone else than it was for me. Everyone is still shocked. Surprisingly they're impressed too. They keep asking "Why?" Well, I could happily walk in the rain at my own speed. I could dance at parties and my hair would never show how much I've sweat. I could wash it at anytime I want. There are no boundaries here that were once set on my relaxed hair. I could wear cute fedoras. I could wear big earrings or none at all and still feel beautiful (earrings seem to be a big gender marker with shaved hair. I'm no longer worried about being mistaken for a man). I could feel invincible.
When someone asks me why I cut my hair, I can tell them many more things. I can say that I didn't believe that "it's painful to be beautiful", and by pain I meant scorching my scalp with heat and chemicals just for a straightened outcome. I can say that I didn't want to deal with having my hair matted to my scalp after a bad burn or waste hundreds of dollars to have it sewn in for me. I can say that my hair was tired, dry, brittle, and therefore breaking as a result of years of perming it. I can say that the decision to have straight hair was made for me through years of brainwash and loathing and now, I've decided to make my own decisions with MY hair. I can say I was finally woman enough to make a choice about how I wanted to look. No one else's input matters.
I'm delighted to be joining in the ever-growing movement that is natural hair. With the straight hair, I cut away all of the chains of conformity, guilt, insecurity, frustration, and self hatred that has manifested over the years. They've clung and held me down for far too long. The stigmas have indeed "stung" me while stereotypes wrote me off as ugly and inapt of having long hair. Our ancestors have forcibly rode that "field slave vs house slave" boat, but our generation has jumped right back on and reinvented it into the infamous "Team lightskinned vs Team darkskinned" battle. Among the many variations of which ever "skin" everyone was, I was supposed to fall into the "undesirable" category of a "darkskinned" girl. However, as of now, while I'm coming into my own, all of that is non-existent. Yes my skin is dark, were my ancestors not African? Yes, my hair is nappy, once again, were my ancestors not African? We only want to feel bad when we talk about slavery in history classes. But when it comes to our social culture, we dehumanize each other with the very same labels. With this and many other things taken into account, yes, I will wear red lipstick. Yes, I will shave my head and dye it blonde. Yes, I will do all of the things society (or whomever) tells me I can't do and do it with the grace of a beautiful black woman. No lightskins or darkskins, just black.
Strength comes from embracing what's within. Everyday is a step towards loving myself. Truth be told, I was cautious about cutting my hair at first. One main concern? I didn't want to lose my friends (preposterous I know but a very true reality to me). However, when I realized that people come and go and that it is I who will have to accept myself, my fears disintegrated into nothing.
People have called me brave. I should have asked why. If utilizing my right to have a choice in how I looked was bravery, then so be it. Je suis une femme réincarné. I am a woman reborn. Instead of looking at myself as another follower of natural hair, I see myself as a pioneer of a personal movement. Moving forward, shining my light towards advancement and hoping that light can touch others. What audacity I must have to think I could be elegant, black, and beautiful.
They say that a woman's hair is her crowning glory. So does the lack thereof make me any less a queen?
I think not.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Eulogy
Today is the day I put to rest those of the departed. It's time and it's only right to hold a proper service. Although they are still physically on this earth, I still feel the need to mourn. Within the last year, I lost a friend to an inevitable event: change.
I cannot say that I didn't see this coming. I saw the signs, gradual steps towards a full metamorphosis. Why am I surprised? It's hard to say that it's because of the end result, because they aren't truly finished "changing", but more of the current result. I expected for there to be more of a gentle transformation, like from a caterpillar to a butterfly or a plant yielding a flower. What I witnessed was a corruption within the process.
They became like clay, molding and shaping into figures to the likeness of others. Soon they hardened and got tossed within (and maybe even by) those who created them. Going with the flow, rolling with the crew, up and down the hills of monotony. Pieces chipping and wearing away as they lose parts of themselves, whilst firmly believing they're getting closer to who they are.
But I knew them as a seed or a caterpillar. I was there during the many phases and stages of childhood. As time went on, we had different interests and I began to dim into the background to them. My presence was almost negligible until needed for help. They tested my loyalty, but it ultimately turned into me being a convenience.
I upheld the creed of a genuine friend.
They swept the floor with it.
I was ole' reliable.
They were constantly M.I.A.
It hurts.
It hurts because I still find myself believing that the old them could return. I put too much love into our friendship for it to barely be reciprocated. I feel like I'm in rehab. One moment, I want to just go cold turkey. Let them go and wither away by themselves. Then, I relapse. Love takes over and I want to be there. I want to care. Perhaps, I care too much.
So now, I'm slowly letting go. It saddens me that someone who had the potential to be a butterfly, chose to be a pebble. Slowly being crushed into dust.
They say that certain characteristics about you are prominent in the people you attract. Some of their traits were once present in me. The constant need for attention and friends. But I changed too. I'm happy I've changed. So at this point I only ask, are they happy with who they've become?
I cannot say that I didn't see this coming. I saw the signs, gradual steps towards a full metamorphosis. Why am I surprised? It's hard to say that it's because of the end result, because they aren't truly finished "changing", but more of the current result. I expected for there to be more of a gentle transformation, like from a caterpillar to a butterfly or a plant yielding a flower. What I witnessed was a corruption within the process.
They became like clay, molding and shaping into figures to the likeness of others. Soon they hardened and got tossed within (and maybe even by) those who created them. Going with the flow, rolling with the crew, up and down the hills of monotony. Pieces chipping and wearing away as they lose parts of themselves, whilst firmly believing they're getting closer to who they are.
But I knew them as a seed or a caterpillar. I was there during the many phases and stages of childhood. As time went on, we had different interests and I began to dim into the background to them. My presence was almost negligible until needed for help. They tested my loyalty, but it ultimately turned into me being a convenience.
I upheld the creed of a genuine friend.
They swept the floor with it.
I was ole' reliable.
They were constantly M.I.A.
It hurts.
It hurts because I still find myself believing that the old them could return. I put too much love into our friendship for it to barely be reciprocated. I feel like I'm in rehab. One moment, I want to just go cold turkey. Let them go and wither away by themselves. Then, I relapse. Love takes over and I want to be there. I want to care. Perhaps, I care too much.
So now, I'm slowly letting go. It saddens me that someone who had the potential to be a butterfly, chose to be a pebble. Slowly being crushed into dust.
They say that certain characteristics about you are prominent in the people you attract. Some of their traits were once present in me. The constant need for attention and friends. But I changed too. I'm happy I've changed. So at this point I only ask, are they happy with who they've become?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)