is to realise
That everyone you recognize
Has lived a tale
You’ll never fully unveil :
A tale with Fisherman knots and an intricate plot,
A tale that can’t be explained or taught.
This is just as true for you and me
As for the stranger on the street.
We are walking stories, talking experience,
We hide siren alarms and syringes
up our sleeve
and paint our scars with Mascara
In the tales we weave.
Torn. Worn. Forlorn.
Yet we never cease to believe.
So when whispers of envy tickle my ears
I laugh at the fickle truth.
A whisper says: She’s so together
I’ve been broken in ways you can’t imagine
Like a fish carved apart into gill and fin.
A whisper says: She’s brave
Yes I’ve braved the monsters
Not those under the bed, but the ones in my head.
Not those that hide behind curtains,
but those that crawl into hearts.
A whisper says: she’s so free
Free, indeed, from the bonds I’ve been tied to,
From the many ways I’ve been lied to,
When the clock ticks bedtime only when validation strikes,
When thoughtless words metamorphosize into sharpened spikes.
A whisper says: She’s complete
Depleted I was once,
Though now replete.
Maimed much, aimed at,
On the end of a tight death grip
Of an invisible White Walker’s fingertip.
I wiped off the grease,
Picked up piece after piece,
I’d signed no lease with life,
It was my job
to find peace with strife.
So I bundled up the loss and guilt,
Tossed them into my patchwork quilt.
When I embraced the monsters at night
I realised they stopped putting up a fight.
Carefree today came with money,
To land at the hills, I crossed pits many.
Yet, if you take a very close look,
You can read some pages of my book.
See the war’s blood red in the blush of my cheeks,
The turns of fate in my twisted green veins,
Find the whiplashes on the creases of my palm,
And you’ll uncover the story behind this picture of calm.
When I see
A sea of people
Who always seem
complete and replete,
fair and free,
I’m reminded that they’re
stories within stories.
And I whisper to myself