A Personal Poem

She lay there; a painful melody thumped in her chest. Alone, no more crutches, no more playful escapes. Her eyes stared up in defiance of the crushing feeling. What was left of her now? The silent room, four purple walls, was home to bits and parts of her soul. Pieces of art. Five years seemed to be a maze leading back to the start. Racing hearts, shattered dreams, and a broken heart desperately in need of healing. She was lying on the ground with a hand reaching for the stars, a waterfall gently caressing her face and puddling on the tile. Between numbness and fire, the pieces she mended together with soot-covered hands. The internal blowtorch was melting and reconstructing. Yet, her other hand's claws ripped into the metal heart, pulling and throwing pieces to the side, bleeding internally from open, invisible veins. She had been happy to exist. An organ was barely beating, but she had never felt more alive at that moment. It would surely be worth the pain, yes? Or would it always remain the same? Same mistakes, same foolish desires, and the same sort of decisions? No. I would never be the same; she would always remember. Eyes much more open and transparent, though visibly blinded by fog and salty water that could fill the sea. Her fists tightened. She had always been bold and brazen. Strong and independent. Successful and wise. So why had she become timid over time? The woman was settling for less than she deserved and dreaming of a better life instead of taking control of her own hands. Who had put in her head that she needed saving when she had been fine alone. She hadn't ever needed anyone before. Waiting for a change, she suffocated on the broken pieces of her pride. How dare she fall victim to her fears and self-doubt — a prisoner inside her flesh, her old delusions. Misery so familiar, yet so dangerous and comfortable to rely on it. Happiness, a warm smoking gun. Pulling that trigger wasn't so tricky, so why didn't she?

Dropping her arm, she let out a long and shaky exhale. Anger at herself was swelling up. Never again. No, not ever again. No more settling. No more trying to please by being something she's not. No more self-doubt would corrupt her soul. No more! Hell and Heaven both knew she had been taking bounds, leaps even, by herself. When she focused on herself, her dreams, the things she enjoyed, and her hopes... they became a reality with no one's help but her own. She would be damn near crazy to have not seen the progress she had made, only to let someone else destroy it. Again, even god damn now, she had picked herself up off the floor, ripped out the knives from her back, and viciously swore those who tried to destroy her would only see her bloom more gorgeous and powerful. She would rather die than prove them right about her. To show that she was weak. She was blazing beautifully on the blank canvas of what the world called life. What they showed, what people tried to cram down her throat, was not the horizon she wanted. She would continue to fight, even if the whole damn world became her enemy. Sitting up, she placed a hand on her heart. It nearly beat out of her chest. The same joyful feeling of a first love seemed to resound itself. Had this been the first time she loved herself? Had she ever felt as confident as this? Flames flickered inside her eyes.

She needed to continue like this. She was moving forward independently, without stopping to ask if it was okay. She would achieve the things she wanted and bluntly face everyone head-on who would stand in her way—no more sacrificing her love and happiness for others unworthy. No more! She would move forward with grace and dignity to prove to herself that she could become the woman she dreamed of being—a woman she dreamed of instead of the immature and innocent girl she had been.