A story.

I’d like to tell you a story. A story about a girl who is currently wrapped in a soft peach colored blanket, curled on her bed writing this, to you. I write this in hopes that reading it will perhaps make you understand yourself better, or better yet, would help you understand life a little better.

This girl I want to tell you about cries sometimes. And when she cries it’s like the flood gates to every emotion in the human brain opens and pours freely. And if the movies were real, the pain behind these tears that fall would move mountains and shake the earth. But instead, these massive feelings and emotions that overtake this girl at times are transformed into small beads of salty water that fall freely down from the soft, beautiful cheeks of this girl.

And sometimes there are tissues strewn about, damp and wilted from the tears. And throwing them away after these crying sessions tends to serve as a cleansing of sorts. Out with the old, in with the new. At other times, the tears are too much and so this girl pours a large glass of wine to help ease the pain that the weight of the world causes her weary shoulders. Her weary heart.

And I want to be honest about this story. I want to tell you that sometimes this girl wishes she could turn it all off. She’s thought about certain options that aren’t legal, or healthy. She’s thought deep dark thoughts that she wouldn’t share with anyone. Yes, I’d like to be very honest when I say that this girl has thought about life without herself. A quick moment of impulse carried out with careful regard. But this girl hasn’t, and most likely wouldn’t, even though sometimes life seems so blatantly unfair she wishes she couldn’t feel, or be anymore.

But instead she buries herself in her blankets, or a man, or something else. And she rides out the emotions like a soldier in a war against themselves. And she could scream, if it weren’t frowned upon but she doesn’t for fear of society. And she could punch walls or throws things off her balcony, but she doesn’t because then she’d be crazy. She could ask all the difficult questions and question everything, but then she’d be known as something other than a polite young lady.

And finally, i’d like to say, that a long time ago, years ago, there was a fire in her heart that never went out. A strength that never dwindled until years of disappointment and let downs, of heartbreaks and betrayals, lead her to where she is now. Sitting in her room, wrapped in a soft peach colored blanket, tissues surrounding her, as she writes her heart out onto a computer screen and drinks a glass of her favorite red wine.

And she waits on a call from a man, because he said he’d call so she waits. And perhaps this time when she answers she will ask all the difficult questions. And that fire in her heart will ignite again, and she will realize that she deserves nothing but the best and if she can’t get the best from a man, she can get the best from herself.

Or, he may not call. Because people don’t do many things they say they’ll do and nothing surprises this girl anymore.


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