The Truth Behind the Broken

Hey. I’m Kacie. Five feet eight inches of insanity trapped in a fifteen year old body with too much ambition crammed into the seams. I’ve got hair darker than obsidian and eyes deeper than black holes so trust me when I tell you not to look too closely. You’ll drown. I was born in a generation that thinks it is cool to say they want to die which leaves those of us who have given up as background noise to a song stuck on repeat which is terrifying as it is. But look… here I am. Still going. I’m terrified of everything related to love, hope, and trust, but have no problem letting you whisper your darkest secrets into my ears. Perhaps that is why these shoulders I carry are heavier than the sky. And yet here I am, still struggling to hold them up. I’m a sucker for blue eyes and messy caramel hair, long eyelashes and goofy smiles. I fall hard and fast for the people who tend to love me the least, but hey. At least I learn my lesson. Sort of. My fingers are full of the words I cannot say, my feet the songs I cannot sing, and my head the voices of thousands trapped with nowhere to go. Which means I am a poet, an author, a dancer, a daughter, a friend, an enemy, and a hopeless romantic. I like typewriters and old country music and paperback books. So technically I’m an old soul, born in the wrong generation, and have been left utterly confused since the very beginning. Of course. I am not the type of girl people expect me to be. Which is to say, I’m not the girl who slathers on a fake face to hide insecurities drilled into her head by society’s rampant “reality check”. But I am the one who hides behind a smile so people don’t see her bruises. I’m afraid that if I show you my scars, you’ll hand me the razor and tell me to keep going while you laugh in the background and get high off the scent of my blood. Hi. My name’s Kacie. I enjoy libraries, dancing in the rain, and stories without endings. I have an impenetrable titanium wall built around my heart so no one else can shatter it, but I don’t allow myself to tear it down as often as I should. My hobbies include listening to sad songs, hoping for silence, and trying to convince myself that I am someone worth loving. I don’t know much, but I do know this: I’m loud in times when I should be quiet and I’ve never stopped fighting despite all the people who told me to quit. And I have taught myself the meaning of love, of belief, and of hope, without even trying.