04-09-2015, 12:47 PM
I wish I had more to life than this.
This disgusting ebony kingdom.
Burnt trees.
I wish he would tell me more about her. Tell me about how she made him feel—at the beginning… at the end—so that I could understand what she was like. Do I sound like her? Do I do things like her? Do I maybe drink water in the same awkward fashion she did? I feel like I am just a burden now. He loves me, I know he does. But did she? No. Maybe she did. Maybe all of this was something that I just never understood.
I keep pondering this thing where I can’t decide at what age it is appropriate to flee the nest. I feel as though I have been left here to figure this out on my own—independent. I want to be dependent. Doesn’t he understand? I don’t know what to do.
Like a shell I am pretty but delicate. I can be crushed under a tide or hidden beneath small grains of sand. I can amount to something pretty enough to be placed on a shelf but nothing ever strong enough to withhold my own. She is pretty, they will say, but can she fight? Well I don’t know.
Can a Spanish singer learn an English tune? Can a Frenchman learn to prefer American bread over a baguette? Does this even make sense to anyone but myself… it is why I don’t talk. I don’t chat about this. Father wouldn’t understand, mother isn’t around to be given the chance, and heaven forbid anyone else in this kingdom see others before themselves.
I have been a floating lily in a pond flourishing with pretty koi fish. They are all aggressive, eating bugs and swimming elegantly through politics like it is their every day job (for some it is). They don’t see me. They see Warship’s daughter, HER daughter; they see a yearling (hardly) splashed with chocolate hues of brown and vibrant tones of white. They see two crystal blue eyes (apparently a gift from HER)—but do they see me? Do they see Smother, yearling with no mother, girl with a introverted father. Girl with so much to live for and yet no real ambition.
Do they see… me?
This disgusting ebony kingdom.
Burnt trees.
I wish he would tell me more about her. Tell me about how she made him feel—at the beginning… at the end—so that I could understand what she was like. Do I sound like her? Do I do things like her? Do I maybe drink water in the same awkward fashion she did? I feel like I am just a burden now. He loves me, I know he does. But did she? No. Maybe she did. Maybe all of this was something that I just never understood.
I keep pondering this thing where I can’t decide at what age it is appropriate to flee the nest. I feel as though I have been left here to figure this out on my own—independent. I want to be dependent. Doesn’t he understand? I don’t know what to do.
Like a shell I am pretty but delicate. I can be crushed under a tide or hidden beneath small grains of sand. I can amount to something pretty enough to be placed on a shelf but nothing ever strong enough to withhold my own. She is pretty, they will say, but can she fight? Well I don’t know.
Can a Spanish singer learn an English tune? Can a Frenchman learn to prefer American bread over a baguette? Does this even make sense to anyone but myself… it is why I don’t talk. I don’t chat about this. Father wouldn’t understand, mother isn’t around to be given the chance, and heaven forbid anyone else in this kingdom see others before themselves.
I have been a floating lily in a pond flourishing with pretty koi fish. They are all aggressive, eating bugs and swimming elegantly through politics like it is their every day job (for some it is). They don’t see me. They see Warship’s daughter, HER daughter; they see a yearling (hardly) splashed with chocolate hues of brown and vibrant tones of white. They see two crystal blue eyes (apparently a gift from HER)—but do they see me? Do they see Smother, yearling with no mother, girl with a introverted father. Girl with so much to live for and yet no real ambition.
Do they see… me?