Childlike Honesty

In my own head, I am famous. I am the only person I know that is 100% fake with everyone I know, with good intentions. I am not a cold-hearted liar. I do not lie to my friends and family to start drama or to be vicious. I falsify my emotions because I don't trust anyone. I hide everything about myself because I don't want anyone to know my weaknesses. This facade is in no way justified, but it's how things are.

Because of this, I value emotional honesty above most qualities in a friend, family member, or partner. I cannot be myself around anyone, so I feel liberated and almost real when someone lets me know how they feel. It can be about anything, really. A friend can tell me their true opinion about me, what they think about politics, what they think about during sex, etc. As long as everything is honest, I love it.

I simply cannot get enough honesty out of life. If I were ever to be cheated on by my boyfriend, I would want to know about it. Ignorance is not bliss, in my mind. My little sisters like to tell me that my mom "didn't want me, and that's why [I] live with daddy." (We have different biological mothers.) It shocked me the first time I heard them say this because I didn't even think they knew about that situation, but then I had to laugh. Children are known for being innocent; innocent of sin, blame, and vendettas. In reality, I think children are just honest. Kids sometimes seem to lack a rudeness filter. It shocks parents, embarrasses adults in general, and sometimes makes people laugh. Perhaps it is the innocence of children that makes them so honest, but either way, I love it. My sisters have told me several things about my appearance, personality, attitude, and hobbies that no adult would dare utter, but I wish we would. I wish we could all be like children in this sense--uncorrupted by society's definitions of what you can and cannot say to people. I wish I could tell someone that I think they're demoralized garbage without everyone getting their panties in a twist. However, all the wishing in the world wouldn't make me that honest, and it sure wouldn't make the world accepting.

Friedrich Nietzsche, in his Thus Spoke Zarathustra, speaks a lot about how adults should act like children, but not youths. I suppose there are several things he could mean by this (such as innocence), but I truly believe that his main point is in the honesty department. I cannot quote Zarathustra off the top of my head, so I cannot offer insightful passages that help my argument. I can only say that if "honesty is the best policy," then the children of the world are the most moral citizens one could find.

'My Immortal'

I have way too many trust issues. I mean, WAAAAAY too many. I don't trust anything anyone says to me. Literally. The only people I trust 100% are my tiny little baby siblings. (Okay, so they're seven, seven, and four now, but they're still my babies!) I don't even trust my parents all the time. ESPECIALLY not my biological mother.

I won't tell the whole story about her (unless you specifically request it), but she left me. It was a long-ass time ago, and I've forgiven her. I grew up without her, and I didn't mind it. It wasn't till I was older that I realized that I was supposed to have a mom, and that she wasn't supposed to physically and mentally abuse me. She wasn't supposed to neglect me, and she was supposed to see me when she promised she would. Through everything, and because of everything, and in spite of everything, I don't hate her. I can't hate her. I grew up and realized that, as badly as she hurt me, she did me the greatest favor in the world by leaving my father to raise me. He's my main man, and he raised me well. And it wasn't till I was older that I also realized that, as badly as she hurt me, she was hurting herself even more. I know her life was full of pain, maybe even moreso than mine. And even though she did it out of selfishness, I know it must have hurt her to leave a four-month-old baby.

That's right, I forgave her. I said goodbye to bitterness, anger, resentment, and whatever else she made me feel. But I cannot get rid of that lack of trust. I cannot shake the dislike I have for the female population, and I certainly don't trust a soul, besides the three aforementioned.

I haven't seen my mother since I was ten, and I'm now twenty. I never even heard from her in those ten long years. I could have a relationship with her now, if I wanted. I could search for her on the various social networks, and I could try to be that long-lost daughter again.

But why fucking bother? I know what we'll happen. I'll be the best damn thing that happened to her for a while. She'll realize that I love her more than anyone else has ever loved her, or ever will love her. She'll remember that I am her first-born child, her oldest daughter, that I have her eyes; and she'll weep. She'll cry for all that lost time, and for not being around when I went to kindergarten, when I discovered art, when I went to two proms, when I graduated high school, when my heart was broken. And then I'll be old news again. It'll be too much of an effort for her to be my mom. I'll be that pain in her ass that she wasn't ready for, and wasn't worth the attempt. And I'll be heart-broken all over again. I'll stay up every night, crying and missing her, missing the potential of knowing exactly who my mommy is.

And I don't want that.

But really, it's not that different from now.

Mom, I've forgiven you, and I've tried to forget you. But you are woven into my soul for all of eternity. I will forever be the one child she didn't want to bother with. I'll be the girl with her eyes; eyes she hasn't looked into in ten years. If I never talk to her again, and I never know what cards life dealt her, it won't change a thing. The damage has been done, and I'll never trust a soul as long as I live. I'll still hear songs that remind me of her, and cry myself to sleep at night. I'll still miss her and love her with more love that she deserves. My heart will never ever be able to leave her behind, though my brain tells it that it should.




(Obviously not my vid.)

Linoleum

The tile is cool against my face. Cool, and so familiar. It isn't the first time that I've chosen to lie with my skin upon the floor. It isn't the first time that I've sunk as low as the floor. It isn't the first time that I've given up on myself in my own bathroom.

As I lie, I trace the pattern with my fingers. Beautiful red snapdragons, full of passion, lust, and pretension. How many times have I been in this spot? I can still see a pool of my tears drowning one of the snapdragons. My eyes hurt, but it isn't from the tears I've shed. My eyes are sore from looking at myself. They burn because of the person I have become.

A peace sign is painted on the bathroom door. I feel the urge to run my fingers over the creases and lines. How long ago did I paint this? Was it minutes, days, months? The blend of blue and green is faded. I must have been here a while.

Can I reach up and touch the symbol on the door? No, I am on the floor; I am in the comfort of the smooth, arrogant flowers. They are as fake as my heart, and as fragile. But I dare not leave the comfort of the familiar.

But the door. I need to touch those colors. I need to feel the vibrations in the wood and know that something is beyond it. I have a window seat. A window seat is beyond the door. The door of peace. A little further from that peace is a view.

But I am here, not there. I cannot walk through the door. Solid, it is. By nature, and the laws of Earth.

I kiss one of the snapdragons, and beg them to grow and cover me. I would very much like to be a piece of the earth. But these tile flowers do not grow, no matter how long I have been here.

I cannot stroll through the door, I repeat. But the door, the door of peace, it has something through it. A small sphere, brass. It wiggles, turns, and it can give me freedom.

Brass. Does it burn? Will it turn for me?

I give the snapdragons another look. I beg, plead with my sore eyes. These flowers, so familiar, push me. They push me with everything they are; false, pretentious, deceptive. They push and prod and poke until I am sitting upon my knees. They lift me and move me until I can touch the brass with my fingers. It does not burn. The flowers urge me on until I grasp the brass and pull myself from the reach of their red control. My feet are trodding on the flowers now, and I splash in the pool of my own tears.

I am against the door of peace. The blues and greens are not so faded from this level. I breathe deeply the smell of wood. Strength, natural strength.

My hand is still upon the brass. I hold my breath as my hand tricks the brass, and the door reveals the world beyond.

My eyes are sore, but I see. I see, I see, I see a window. And beyond that window, a sky. The sky is bright. How long was I there?

The sky outside is a conundrum. It can change infinitely, but is always there; a constant. It has always been there.

I sit upon the window seat and rest my face upon the panes. They are warm from the day that ticked on. I will stay here.