Wishfully
*~ perfect teatime! ~*
The Story Behind The Story
This is based off of a real human being. I've never met her in person, but I wish I had so I could give her a hug and tell her that everything will be alright. I don't even know if she is alive right now, but I pray she is happy and loved. I met this girl online, though at the time she was posing as a male. Not that it mattered to me- he was a great writer, and I thought he should know that. So we started messaging. But I'm not so great at small talk, and his replies would normally be one sentence, maybe even one word. It was hard for me to talk to him, but I refused to give up because from his writing, it was obvious he was depressed and suicidal. I'm not a therapist, and I could tell that trying to encourage him might push him away even further from me. So, even if I only got a one-word response, it was still something- it was proof that he was still alive. After awhile, he told me that he was actually a she, and that she had been doing an experiment. It still didn't matter to me how much of it was real or fake. Because even if her front was false, she was not that different from the boy she was pretending to be. She was still in need of hope, of love, of someone or something to hold onto. Though I could never be that someone, I wanted to try to give her hope. Around Christmas, I asked if there was anything I could do for her- anything I could write. She asked for a story about a girl who attempted suicide, but that had a happy ending. I struggled to think of a story, and I never really figured out anything. I've done a terrible job at keeping in touch with her, seeing as we haven't talked in months. But I haven't forgotten her, and I never will. So finally, eight months later, I wrote this. It is not the most grammatically correct piece- it's not really a story even, but not a poem either. It's just what I thought about- what I would want her to know. It was written in a few lonely hours late at night, and very little has been edited because I thought that's how it should be- the raw truth from the bottom of my heart.
This is based off of a real human being. I've never met her in person, but I wish I had so I could give her a hug and tell her that everything will be alright. I don't even know if she is alive right now, but I pray she is happy and loved. I met this girl online, though at the time she was posing as a male. Not that it mattered to me- he was a great writer, and I thought he should know that. So we started messaging. But I'm not so great at small talk, and his replies would normally be one sentence, maybe even one word. It was hard for me to talk to him, but I refused to give up because from his writing, it was obvious he was depressed and suicidal. I'm not a therapist, and I could tell that trying to encourage him might push him away even further from me. So, even if I only got a one-word response, it was still something- it was proof that he was still alive. After awhile, he told me that he was actually a she, and that she had been doing an experiment. It still didn't matter to me how much of it was real or fake. Because even if her front was false, she was not that different from the boy she was pretending to be. She was still in need of hope, of love, of someone or something to hold onto. Though I could never be that someone, I wanted to try to give her hope. Around Christmas, I asked if there was anything I could do for her- anything I could write. She asked for a story about a girl who attempted suicide, but that had a happy ending. I struggled to think of a story, and I never really figured out anything. I've done a terrible job at keeping in touch with her, seeing as we haven't talked in months. But I haven't forgotten her, and I never will. So finally, eight months later, I wrote this. It is not the most grammatically correct piece- it's not really a story even, but not a poem either. It's just what I thought about- what I would want her to know. It was written in a few lonely hours late at night, and very little has been edited because I thought that's how it should be- the raw truth from the bottom of my heart.
There's a girl I know. I would say I know her quite well, seeing as we've been friends for years. Yet some days, I feel as though I don't know her at all. She comes across a little strange to most people. She sits in the corner of the same cafe every day. She never says a word to anyone- simply drinks her coffee and stares out the window. Some days I go with her, but our conversations fade into the classical background music, and I find myself watching her as she watches the world pass by. I want to ask her what she's thinking about, but I'm afraid to break her concentration.
There's a girl I know. She rarely smiles, but she is beautiful. Although her eyes are sad, they fill me with wonder and awe. I can see galaxies beyond the present world- stars, illustrious and immeasurable. I can't begin to imagine the things she has seen with those eyes. Her tears are like constant rivers that flow in waves embedded in her irises, and I can see them whenever she looks at me. However, I know not a tear will escape those dull gems. I don't want to see her cry, but sometimes I think it must hurt to be so strong. Her face is a pale moon full of shadows and reflections. Sometimes it's hard to see who she really is beneath those craters and the hazy surface, but I want to know her. I want to see her for who she really is- not who her classmates think she is, not who her family thinks she is, not who her doctors think she is. I tell her she shouldn't listen to them, and she assures me their opinions mean nothing to her, but I know she's lying. The words fill her mind until they consume her thoughts and flood her broken soul with false perceptions. The dam that held these things at bay has been shattered long ago, so I know their words are darts that pin her to the ghosts of her past. If my encouragement could rebuild her spirit, I would tell her how beautiful she is every day until I die. But I know she doesn't believe me. The last time I told her she was amazing, she laughed and brushed my hand aside, insisting that my flattery was useless. But my words are not empty compliments, and I hope someday when I tell her she's beautiful, she will look back at me and say, "Yes, I am."
There's a girl I know. She sits alone on cold floors and stares at blank walls, just looking for some way out. She hides small bottles in her purse, slipping colored beads like a kid in a candy store when she thinks no one is watching. She only sleeps after midnight, if she even sleeps at all. In the dark, her demons come out to play, and they won't allow her a peaceful night's rest. Her doctors say she will be fine in time, but I know better. She's been here before, and I know this won't be the last time. If I could take her place, I would do so without a second thought. I would be her Atlas and carry the world so that she could break free and fly to someplace far away from here.
There's a girl I know. She is an artist. She is a poet. This girl has a way with words. Though unspoken, she knows how to use them better than I will ever be able to. Sometimes she writes on blank pages with black ink, but other times she paints in blood with her skin as the empty canvas. I wish her words weren't so painful, I wish her words spoke life rather than whispering death into her ears like a wicked spell to bind her. She cannot break the spell, and it has cursed her many times. She has been doomed to walk this earth forever, she tells me. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot put an end to her story. But I don't want her story to end. It deserves to go on. She deserves to go on. So I will take her hand, and we will walk through this together.
There's a girl I know. She is not perfect, she is not even 'okay' every day. But to me, she is everything. She doesn't understand why I care about her so much, and to be honest, I can't fully explain it either. But what I do know is that she is my gravity. Even though she cannot always help herself, she keeps me constant and steady. Although her heart is cold, her very presence keeps me warm. It makes no sense to her- why someone like me would want to listen to a broken music box, why someone like me would bet on a lame horse, why someone like me would choose to walk barefoot upon shards of broken glass. But the truth is, maybe we're not so different. Maybe I've been broken too. But if we're broken together, then two halves will make a whole.
There's a girl I know. She rarely smiles, but she is beautiful. Although her eyes are sad, they fill me with wonder and awe. I can see galaxies beyond the present world- stars, illustrious and immeasurable. I can't begin to imagine the things she has seen with those eyes. Her tears are like constant rivers that flow in waves embedded in her irises, and I can see them whenever she looks at me. However, I know not a tear will escape those dull gems. I don't want to see her cry, but sometimes I think it must hurt to be so strong. Her face is a pale moon full of shadows and reflections. Sometimes it's hard to see who she really is beneath those craters and the hazy surface, but I want to know her. I want to see her for who she really is- not who her classmates think she is, not who her family thinks she is, not who her doctors think she is. I tell her she shouldn't listen to them, and she assures me their opinions mean nothing to her, but I know she's lying. The words fill her mind until they consume her thoughts and flood her broken soul with false perceptions. The dam that held these things at bay has been shattered long ago, so I know their words are darts that pin her to the ghosts of her past. If my encouragement could rebuild her spirit, I would tell her how beautiful she is every day until I die. But I know she doesn't believe me. The last time I told her she was amazing, she laughed and brushed my hand aside, insisting that my flattery was useless. But my words are not empty compliments, and I hope someday when I tell her she's beautiful, she will look back at me and say, "Yes, I am."
There's a girl I know. She sits alone on cold floors and stares at blank walls, just looking for some way out. She hides small bottles in her purse, slipping colored beads like a kid in a candy store when she thinks no one is watching. She only sleeps after midnight, if she even sleeps at all. In the dark, her demons come out to play, and they won't allow her a peaceful night's rest. Her doctors say she will be fine in time, but I know better. She's been here before, and I know this won't be the last time. If I could take her place, I would do so without a second thought. I would be her Atlas and carry the world so that she could break free and fly to someplace far away from here.
There's a girl I know. She is an artist. She is a poet. This girl has a way with words. Though unspoken, she knows how to use them better than I will ever be able to. Sometimes she writes on blank pages with black ink, but other times she paints in blood with her skin as the empty canvas. I wish her words weren't so painful, I wish her words spoke life rather than whispering death into her ears like a wicked spell to bind her. She cannot break the spell, and it has cursed her many times. She has been doomed to walk this earth forever, she tells me. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot put an end to her story. But I don't want her story to end. It deserves to go on. She deserves to go on. So I will take her hand, and we will walk through this together.
There's a girl I know. She is not perfect, she is not even 'okay' every day. But to me, she is everything. She doesn't understand why I care about her so much, and to be honest, I can't fully explain it either. But what I do know is that she is my gravity. Even though she cannot always help herself, she keeps me constant and steady. Although her heart is cold, her very presence keeps me warm. It makes no sense to her- why someone like me would want to listen to a broken music box, why someone like me would bet on a lame horse, why someone like me would choose to walk barefoot upon shards of broken glass. But the truth is, maybe we're not so different. Maybe I've been broken too. But if we're broken together, then two halves will make a whole.
