The yearning to frame the old me in a vintage picture frame, framed merely to steal glances at the shattered remnants of my being.
The embellished cut-out fragments of a sanguine heart that has stopped beating as fast as before, and the arteries are now vines that restricts the blood flow. Adorned with blossoms sprouting from every crevice, endowed with beauty yet devoid of function. Do you discern the irony?
And there existed the version I was birthed into, innocence and optimism cavorted at the grand gala of my mind. Nothing's permanent, I'm sure you've heard, so it turned into ashes and burned and bruised my body parts.
"Trauma forged your resilience," a relentless refrain echoing like an alarm clock beside my bed each dawn, no one asked for it yet we relentlessly toil under the grace of time.
Who saves me? Who saves me? Only I can save me is the mantra I hear. Crushing feelings with my heels like I'm walking on glass frames, vulnerability is now a blade that just bestows bloody scratches.
Do I abhor the metamorphosis or embrace it? The debate remains unresolved, ensnaring me in its enigmatic dance.
Despite the barging questions of if it's just a phase of stoicism, a mind teetering on the brink of madness and a tempestuous heart confined within, this, alas, is the solitary persona I must now live with.
Comments