They don’t write stories about girls like me. The ones who come into this world filled with hope and love to give, also ready to receive. The girl who loves, listens, obeys. Is quiet and happy to play on her own. Who can find the company in other than imaginary friends and specially chosen teddy bears? The one who loves to create and express true inner self before she realises she is doing it. The one who begins to change but doesn’t care for their outward appearance. Who dresses for themselves and no one else. Who begins to try harder and blossoms into a woman who all along was a light in the dark. No one cares for the girl who walked through purgatory even though she didn’t belong there. The girl who was dragged from place to place, punished for others sins yet still kept trying her best to be better, believing she was wrong and trying to show those around her how much she did love them and how good she truly was.
They don’t write books about women like me. The ones who are broken from the patterns of the past and struggling to escape the ever closing mouth of the narcissists clever disguised as a new beginning, a person you should trust. The woman who fights for change, who refuses to talk when there is no listening ear, who is abused and made out to be a fool or harlot by the very people who shine purity and spiritual perfection. The woman who is controlled, doomed to live a life that does not belong to her or her heart. Her inner compass shows her where to go but crowds gather with weapons and leave her bloodied and bruised. The woman grows tired but begins to accept the darkness and what it can offer her. The woman who finds solace in silence, singularity, a peace found in dark times.
What would they say, where could they begin to describe a woman like me? I would just be a side story, I would not be glorified. This has been their narrative all the while. They remind you daily how you should be and will be destroyed. I just need to know what makes me special, so singled out that in this spotlight of deathly attention I find myself. Truly, only the devil himself appeared to Christ in the desert, a man alone trying to save humanity. Who am I that they so desire to end my life with their words and fierce actions? Where did I go so wrong, but maybe that’s just it. That is my own being of trusting and hope, they were angered because they ended up dead anyway. Their every choice and action led them to the point where they decided or chose to be this content with evil. That this evil would constrict all good and hopeful things. Things they deem worthy of death by their words, their hands, their actions. Their words destroy me. Their lies consumed my mind and ruined my heart forever.
This is why they don’t write stories about us, we are too good for this world. We are too good for them. We are too good for you. We don’t deserve this unrequited existence of pain and suffering. We didn’t need to learn to wear a mask to cover your sins. We shouldn’t have learnt to survive the end of our existence at your hand. It was not our duty to fall for you. You chose death, so let death consume you, like a bellowing smoke, let it wrap its arms around your soul and take your final breath away. Would death set us free from you. What would it take for me to know what that freedom tastes like. Who would believe a story as mine, so desperate, so bizarre, one truly unbelievable and yet here I am. I want to be free of all this heartache and pain. So, I write my own story. For those who share the journey and truly understand. We are not alone, but we are not united yet. Wouldn’t love come to rescue us from world around us set ablaze, we know not because we tire of waiting for it. Let us sharpen our swords and slay the dragon, let us own everything that held us captive, so we may destroy it. We rule over it and claim our own victory because we know, no one is coming to save us. We must save only ourselves in an ending to all that held us captive. That is our beginning.
Esoteric Realms 