Something Close to Me

I hide behind ideas.

Theories on what a woman should mean, how she should hold her spine, smile and gleam, ways in which she can shape her memory to fit to what we wish to see. The idea that if I am good, the world will succeed. The belief that if I love hard enough, love will return itself to me.

But I’ve never loved, just for the sake of it.
And I’ve never been good, just to be good in the wake of it.

I don’t know if my values are my own. Or if I found them at birth, at church, or in my white, middle-class, childhood home. And maybe I would be happier as a slut or a bitch, but I can’t stop looking down on them long enough to truly try and consider it.

My mind is a room located in my brain. My body is as free as the wind, but my thoughts I can’t escape. They are as heavy as the rain, as fickle as the days, they wage war on peace until only havoc can remain.

I really don’t know much of anything. But I know that my emotions lie at the centre of everything. That I follow in their footsteps, swept away in their tidal waves, they are found among my ruins, and in all that has decayed. They have carved my sharp tongue that cuts at the throats of the ones that I love. I take anyone with a mouth seriously, but I do not dare to trust anyone with eyes. I run circles in my mind, I’m looking for answers that I just can’t seem to find.

But I preach anyway. Solutionless speak of how to be happy, how to grow, how to fall, and how to fade away.
I weave my words around you, dressed to fit your frame.
You parade your new ensemble, created by my name.
And not to sound cliche,

But we are sheep in wolves clothing.
You see, all I am proposing
is that I am the portrait of a woman,
the shadow of a man.
A portrayal of the stars, the sea and all the land.

But it is important to note that shadows only come alive at night,
that they transform themselves in the light.
That paintings are creations of colour, of memory, of sight.
But they do not embody the canvas as it was, full of potential, blank and white.
We seem to forget we are not only what we write, but also what we might.

I have lost something close to me, the head in which I dream.
The eyes in which I see, the thoughts that I’d conceived.

Creativity over-run by indisputable, unreputable, scientific fact.
Morals designed off of judgments on the way that others act.
It seems that I have lost the canvas, lost the easel, lost the beaten path.

Guided by irrational reactions, and a mind that is not mine.
I’ve been trying to remember where I came from,
but it seems I can’t look back.

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