goodbye my love

"awaken my love! awaken my love!" he uttered, waiting for my sleeping eyelids to flutter open.
but, i had always been a heavy sleeper- not even the wraths of hell could stir me from the wonderland in my dreams, safe from the outside world and its disappointments.
when i awoke, i expected to be greeted by his comforting smile, but all i came up with was empty space.
"gone...gone..." i cried as i clawed at the air- the space that he used to occupy.
the coldness of the stale, lonely air clutched my heart and squeezed the liveliness out of me.
a new-born corpse, i stumbled out of bed and aimlessly wandered about, searching for any fragment of him i could find.
coming up empty, i slumped to the ground in numb agony- my cheeks screaming from the fury of abandonment, my bright eyes dull with drops of acid rain- the hot tears coated my face, splashing onto the floor, drowning me.
what a way to go- drowning in one's own pool of self-despair.
you visited me at my funeral with her by your side. as you leaned down to kiss her rosy cheeks and grasp her inviting hands, a deep resentment grew in me.
the resentment awakened me- it awakened the flaming core of fury inside me. i shot up from my casket and burned the place down to the ground with my screams of broken-heart, gut-wrenching suffering.
you got tired of waiting for me to wake up, & decided that the wait wasn't worth it.
you wanted someone who would jolt awake at the slight sound of your breath. you wanted someone who would bend to your will- someone who would spend every single one of their waking moments doing whatever they can to please you. you wanted someone who would surrender their own life for the sake of yours.
 i had always been defiant. i had always done things on my own terms and you couldn't handle that. you couldn't handle my individuality. you couldn't handle the way i made up my own words to songs, the way i invented my own colors to paint with, the way i created new ways to think. i was too much for you.
it took me a while to realize that when you uttered "awaken my love" into my patient ears, you knew i wouldn't wake. it was all part of your plan. you had tired of me long  before that. you used it as an excuse to leave me. you were going to leave me no matter what.
now, i am glad i never woke up- glad i didn't watch you walk out the door, glad i didn't see you run into her arms.
at least, this way, my last memory of you that i can clutch onto is the sound of your voice- "awaken my love, awaken my love". you really meant "goodbye my love, goodbye my love."

You

     But, what is wrong with me? There must be something wrong with me to feel the way that I do- to feel so intensely for you. You- you with the eyes as rich as the dirt of the earth we tread upon; you with the hands that seem to be certain of their own strength; you with the crooked smile and the chapped lips that never cease to be soft with uttered promises; you with the ambitions as big as the ocean is deep- you found a way to burrow into every crevice of my brain, invading my every thought.
     Maybe I'm not in love with you, but I can assure you that this is more than just an infatuation or a crush. This is much more- so much more intense and so much more furious.
     My skin blazes with the desire I have to trace the outline of your features with my thirsting fingertips- my fingertips that are thirsty for the touch of the ocean that is your body. My heart rages with the hunger for the velvety texture of your hair running between my fingers. My mouth screams for the taste of your words- those words that appeased my aching soul night after night, warding off the midnight creepers- by the names of depression, worry, & stress- and instilling within me a sense of hope.
     You, a walking ray of sunshine, make me, a walking contradiction, feel like I might have a place in this mischievously chaotic world. You, a fallen burst of stars, make me, a burnt-up space rock, question my religion- whatever that may be- and kneel in worship at your feet. You, a thriving palm tree, make me, a withered weed, want to make reckless decisions and toss away my morals.
     I want you- I want you to want me; I want you to touch me; I want you to feel me; I want you to hear me; I want you to need me. I want us to become one. I want to feel the simmering heat of your shining aura clash with the icy cold of my frozen heart. I want you to thaw me from the inside out. I want to feel your vibrations way deep in the marrow of my bones. I want the bass of your voice to resonate in the silenced parts of my limbs. I want to memorize everything about you, detail by detail, in the warmth of your embrace.
     So, maybe there is something wrong with me after all. Whatever it may be, I never want it to cease- I never want it to disappear. I want to bask in the fury of these feelings I have for you until the sun tires out and the sky falls. I want to spend the rest of my days with one thought imprinted in my scatter-brain: you.

A Stranger In A Vessel

"Are you okay?"
"What's wrong?"
"How are you?"

     I know you mean well when you ask. It's your subtle way of showing you care,
but how do I respond? How can I respond?
     Do I admit that I am so mentally-fatigued of putting on this facade of smiles, self-assurance, and security?
     I have always admired, envied even, the skill it takes for famous actors to pull off their roles so well, but I've realized: I do the same thing every single day. I paint my confidence on my face and carry on through the day, pretending as if I can't feel the strings within me- the strings that keep my tattered heart in place- slowly snapping with each uncertain breath I inhale.
     I have so many different personalities- they are my coping mechanisms. I can hide behind the masks of these personalities and avoid facing myself- my insecurities & self-doubts. I adapt to my surroundings because I have this innate desire to please others; therefore, that results in me molding myself to fit the expectations of society. "Feed me, feed me," they scream, and what do I do? I give up my only scraps of food to their hungry, growling stomachs, and all for what? Their cheaply-bought attention? Their short-lived acceptance? Their feigned compassion?
     If everything I do is in a vain attempt to gain the approval of others, how much of me is...well, me? Is anything I think, anything I say, anything I do truly mine or is it provoked by an idea someone else planted in my brain? How will I ever know which parts of me are buried deep into my soul- my natural-born qualities- and which parts are just crafted to fit somebody else's demands?
     In this day and age, where you have to find your self-worth either by buying it or by how many followers you have on any given social media, is there such thing as self-identity-individuality- anymore?
     How can I love myself when I don't even know who I am? Forget the big question of "what's the purpose of life?" What about the question of "who am I?"
     I can't even begin to search for my purpose in life until I have found who I am searching for, and right now, I am just a stranger in my own vessel.

A Letter To The One Who Broke My Heart

Dear Boy with the Crooked Smile,

     Hi, it's me. Remember: the girl who used to dry your eyes of stray tears; the girl who used to give you the full attention you demanded whenever you would go off on one of your tangents, so eager to hear the sound of your own voice; the girl who used to stay up till 5 AM, despite the sleep glazing over her eyes, just because you battled insomnia as much as she battled self-doubt; the girl who used to whisper sweet-nothing's in your ear, even whenever you would tell her that her voice was too loud; the girl who used to suffer the "you-deserve-better"s and the "i-heard-he's-been-sneaking-around-with"s because she had faith in you- too much faith.
     If I had known what I know now- how deeply you would end up betraying me- can I guarantee that I would have gave up even one second of the time I spent with you to spare me from the hurt? No, I am not certain that, even though you hurt me worse than any physical wound could, I would have left you sooner, before you had the chance to shred my heart into shrapnel.
     Oh, the sweet taste of ignorance. Before I knew how you fantasized about the dimples at the bottom of her spine; before i knew how you were a fiend for the taste of her mouth; before I knew how you escaped to the curve of her hips when I wasn't anywhere to be found- out of sight, out of mind- before all of this, I was blissfully unaware yet tragically in love.
     Somehow, in retrospect, despite the fact that you have forever tainted my heart and my ability to trust, I can't bring myself to hate you; I can't bring myself to regret the time I wasted on you; and I can't bring myself to regret all of the secrets I shared with you.
     Although it was brief, you brought color into my gray world. You painted the town not only red, but also orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple...
     Yes, the colors did fade the minute your hand fell from my grasp. In fact, the darkness seemed to deepen once you were gone, but at the least I had these ghosts of memories.
     It's been a year since you ripped me apart at every seam as you ever-so-greedily plucked my heart from its stringed cage and dragged it in the dirt, leaving a trail of rusty mud that spelled out my despair. My heart, along with myself as a whole, has changed. Once you stole my world and erased the colors I had grown fond of, it gave me motivation- a reason to pick myself up off the cold, hard floor of depression and self-hatred. When you left me, you took half of me with you. But, the other half that was left behind, well, it got stronger. It grew and grew and grew until it was twice the size as both halves put together. The newfound strength I learned to harness from the pain I was suffering was strong enough to rebuild a new world with much more vibrant colors.


                                                                                                     Yours Truly,
                                                                                                              The Girl with the Crooked Heart

Introductions & Akwardness

     16 years- 16 long years I have survived. Through the gruesome ups, downs, & overall upside-downness of life, I have somehow managed to survive.
     I used to be a quiet child with too much to say but too little courage to lift my voice. Thanks to my tight-lipped silence, I learned to observe my surroundings and the people around me, which often led to me discovering things that other people, specifically those who never took a break from listening to their own nonsensical chatter, could not notice.
     It was through this observant manner that I discovered my one true love: writing. I fell in love with the sound of the rhythmic syllables that made up words; with the feel of a slick pencil gripped between my eager fingertips; with the balance of colors between the dark tint of  letters in contrast to the pure white paper they were scribbled upon. Anytime I had any writing utensil handy, a scrap piece of paper no matter the size, and a second to spare, I was turning my thoughts into words. To me, nothing could ever compare to the deep-seated satisfaction of successfully formulating the jumbled mass that were my thoughts into written ideas that others could easily decipher.
     Since I had always been awkward and had trouble clicking with people in excessively social settings, I had to learn to create my own coping mechanisms. I could never quite figure out how to communicate with others in a way that they could easily relate to me. I had always struggled with trying to connect with the other kids. My ideas were just far too outside of the box for them. But, once I began writing, I found that I no longer cared what others thought. I knew that as long as I had a way to vent and release my bottled up emotions, I would be just fine. Sure, maybe an inanimate object, such as the paper I wrote upon, couldn't actually return the act of sharing thoughts and ideas, but I didn't need, or even necessarily want, someone to talk. I just needed an outlet- someone, or something, so to speak, to listen.
     Writing became my escape- my go-to happy place. Anytime I became overwhelmed with depression or fear or just plain everyday  stress, I would resort to releasing it through writing. Many a nights, I have emptied out the deepest, darkest corners of my mind to the silenced secrecy of paper. When I write, there is no expectations. I get to control what is said, how it is said, and who gets to read what is said. Nothing I write has the guaranteed intent of being read by another's eyes. I like the privacy of writing- how I can decide that if my eyes are the only ones to get to read something I have written, then so be it.
     Without words, the world would be even more chaotic than it already is. Words could move a nation if you give them a purpose. That is, I believe, my goal- possibly my purpose, even- in life: to make a difference, no matter how big or little, with my words. I will strive everyday to share a piece of me with my words in hopes that something, whether it's one of my own personal struggles or whether it's one of my random, everyday thoughts, will inspire somebody else to achieve a cause that's much bigger than all of us.
     That concludes the  first post of my blog. I hope that this gave you some insight to me as a person and what my purpose is for starting this blog. :-)


                                                                                                  Yours Truly,
                                                                                                             Tocsi Hoosier