﹕　𝐈𝐈

                                    

                                          

                            

                                
                            
                              
                                  
                              
                              
                                
                                  
                                  
                                
                              
                             
                            
                            
                          
                          
Y O U﹔　࿐
PEARLS.   WARMING   CURLING   irons. Vintage disney. A love for flowers. 
It's all wondrous. It's all a part of growing up with sparkling eyes and missing teeth and little pink hair-ties.
It was wondrous. It was amazing. It was peaceful.
But now, as an adult, full of strong teeth and the sensibility that a teenager wishes she had, everything from the blissfulness of youth is perceived with eyes that lack that particular innocence.
Everything is remembered. That, or it's shunned, banished to the formidable depths of a supple subconscious, never to be regarded again.
However, there are certain memories that cannot be forgotten. You've tried.
Many wish that these kinds of memories could be erased, but unfortunately, every dam ends up breaking at some point. It could be an insignificant leak or a crumbling wall, but either way, the water of tragedy will still spill.
THURSDAY   MORNING
Yesterday was a true test of your abilities. Your skills in socializing are shot, ruined by people of your past, so whatever that was during your 9 A.M. was a meteor to your weak earth.
Slipping out of the floral covers on your twin-sized bed, you slink over to the standing mirror propped against the wall, leaning towards it to get a closer look.
You must have been restless last night. It's evident in the way your eye bags hang heavier, and what should be glossy corneas now fogged over with remnants of exhaustion. Your focus sways, landing on the wrinkled fabric of the sweatshirt you slept in. You tug at it, freeing it of its flaws. Removing the cotton contact, you notice how grimy and taut your skin is, irritated and ridden with stress.
You must have had another nightmare. That's not surprising. In fact, it's absolutely expected.
You slither further, passing the mirror and coiling in the bathroom.
Full of mental debris leftover by the cyclone that swirls the tornado alley of your youth, you clamor over to the toilet, collapsing onto your knees. The flesh of them meets cold tile before you vomit all of what used to be in your stomach.
You wish that you could sleep a full night of peace, at least once. You would battle and beg the evil that ransacks your mind if you could just sleep without a single nightmare. You reminisce on the mornings where you would wake up refreshed, limbs free and ignorant of that constant, relentless ache.
Those mornings seem blasphemous now. Not a day goes by where you don't think about what's been done to you, all those years ago.
After all of this time, you would expect to be over it. Maybe majorly unsettled, but for the most part over it. An unfortunate event should not bear its toll this far into your life. Maybe you're just not strong enough to deal with it. Maybe you surrendered, and you weren't supposed to kneel and instead lock your knees and stand your ground, but you did. You knelt.