How many times in a lifetime do we meet the “lesson” people? The ones who take you on wonderful rides that end in driving you off the cliff, the driver is safe but the passenger paralyzed from body to soul. If the heart casts ghosts, then these “lessons” are my Halloween. These people are my all-year Novembers that haunt the summer romances that could’ve been, the Christmas lights that never got lit, and the heart-shaped cards I didn’t get to receive in February. All I get are candies that foster cavities in my being and the tricks—only temporarily healed by scented candles until the ones for my funeral are ready.
This is my tightrope in the emergency room before the black shadow visits me. These “lessons” are my Mondays and hourly confusion. My friends are suddenly the haze in my brain, questioning my sanity so anxiety enjoys my wasted days. They said bad experiences make for good stories, but oh, how it also makes sure to be the best nightmares. I did not need any help to topple my life over, but how these knowing humans barge inside my peace with their great contributions and ribboned donations. It’s so easy for them to make waves for my sandcastles to crumble over because they knew I would just smile and help them build theirs. I defend them from their psychos and they reward me theirs—I end up tired of sharing my ‘me’.
My stories are for listeners, but how the gossipers make them my bestsellers for free. I did not share my reversed clocks so that the ones who heard could replay it to burn some skin and break my bones. But how the friends sometimes make you the fool, the matchsticks inflaming the gaslight for their spectacular explosion. Yes, my darling, I am so scarred, I will never recover. But to be fair, I no longer know what it’s like to be healed.
How funny that I am the most scared of being happy ‘cause my lessons are monsters in human form. Can I wish for angels that are really of heaven when I get given pirates who steal my life when I’m not even sure if I have any left? My only salvation is a miracle, and so I try to pray again. Dear God, I hope You never let me forget that I am Your child, and if my terrors get their grace, then my Father, can You also be kind to me? Because sometimes some of Your beautiful creatures do not treat me so beautifully.
I am as flawed as the stitches on an old pale shirt that has gone to war, but look how it tried to survive every day. Some days I am scared of the time I no longer fear leaving more than living. Until then, I thank the cosmos for my pain.