Feelings are the human's worst enemy, having heavy feelings and not knowing how to express yourself especially when the ones around you are invalidating those feelings that you have.
love isn't insecurities so how can somebody claim to love you and...
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My father wasn't a man. He was a monster hiding behind the label.
He wasn't a protector or a provider, he was the one thing I feared most in this world.
A bottle of liquor was never far from his hand, and his temper...God, his temper could shake the whole house. He'd come home from the bar, reeking of whiskey and rage, and if he wasn't screaming, he was swinging.
It wasn't just me he hurt, though my mother, always tried to shield me. She'd step in, take the brunt of his anger, whispering to me, "Go to your room. Don't come out no matter what" And like a scared little bitch I listened.
I'd press my hands to my ears to block out the sounds of glass breaking, the thud of fists against flesh, her cries.
I spent so many nights alone in my room, the silence after feeling like a weight on my chest. I remember the way the walls felt close, the air thick with fear and the smell of blood and alcohol.
Every creak of the floorboards outside my door made my heart race. I'd hold my breath, praying that he wouldn't come for me next, that he wouldn't get angry enough to tear through my sanctuary.
And then, when the house finally fell quiet and I would dare to peek out, I'd see my mother, bruised and broken, but still standing.
She never once let him see her cry, always holding it together, pretending everything was okay for me. But I knew. I knew the truth. And every time I saw her hurt, it was like the world around me cracked just a little more.
Sometimes, I wonder why she stayed. Why she took the hits, why she let him destroy her piece by piece.
I promised myself I would never be like him. I would never let myself become a monster hiding behind a label.
Some nights, when the world gets too loud, I can feel it creeping in, that rage I once saw in him, wanting to take hold.
Which is why I turned to pills, alcohol makes me aggressive. I don't want to be my father, perks or literally any pill made me calm.
Maybe that's why I was so attached and trying to help Beyoncé. Everyone said it was because I liked her, but no.
It wasn't about that. It was because I refuse to see someone go through the same thing my mom went through.
I admit, that kiss we shared was something else, and I'd love to get her to that level again, maybe even deeper but I want to save her before it was too late.
Beyoncé's been through enough. I can see the weight she carries, the stuff she doesn't say out loud. She wears that strength like armor, but I know it's only a facade. Beneath it, she's broken in ways no one can really understand unless they've been there, felt that kind of pain.
I don't want her to drown in it like my mom did, to be stuck in a cycle of hurt that never stops, no matter how much you try to fix it.
Anora reminds me of my younger self, the way Anora looks at Beyoncé sometimes, the way she seeks her approval, her love, the same way I always looked to my mom.
