Beauty of Solitude
If the younger me could see me now.
I have it all. Beauty, wealth, friends, intelligence, intellectuality, freedom and men who would trip over their own feet to get one look at me.
Yet I do not have everything.
I do not have the ability to articulate the reason for the tears. The unnamed streaming down my skin.
I do not have the ability to articulate the quiet of my head.
Is it peace? Or is it the silence of a lost soul?
Sometimes, I catch myself staring at the moon; the realisation that even the most serene of the universe carries a dark side.
A side that will always be hidden from the devotees.
A side that I attempt to swallow away, along with the meaningless whimpers that clamp at my throat.
A side that I, for an unknown reason, cannot physically afford a witness.
They tell me they love me, they care for me, they’d die for me.
And they have shown me every reason to believe them.
So why am I so good at hiding?
Who am I hiding from?
Is it from the girl in the mirror? Or all the thoughts that swim in my head to create one dizzying loop of torment that wraps around my blood and squeezes with the softness of a silk, yet the violence of a sword.
My phone buzzes, I wait for it to stop.
My mind hums, I shut my eyes for it to stop.
My blood purrs, I rip at my skin for it to stop.
The phone keeps buzzing; my mind keeps humming and my blood keeps purring.
So, I curl up on my bed, and I look out the window.
The moon illuminates the silver of my rings and the conflict of my eyes as they well up.
Every serenity has a dark side, and every inch of my beauty comes from a ghost of the girl who once craved this attention, who once craved this age.
Now I have this attention, now I have this age.
Yet all I wish for is to reach for her and not be met with the empty promise of her tears and the empty platitude of my solitude.
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