Remember to Breathe

Maps

Maps, things like memories, tracking across land, rivers, mountains, places. Places you've never been, places you want to go, places you want to be.

All these things are nice, but the intentions are not. These maps aren't over land. These are maps over skin, scarring across freckles, fingers, hips, ribs, wrists. Wrists you've meant to decorate with bracelets, ribbons, sleeves, not scars, pains, memories, feelings you want to hide away.

People never seem to notice, not paying any attention to the little kid with too much jewelry to hide, hide, hide away the marks. Don't take notice of the marred skin. If they do, they pretend not to. Pretend not to know what they are, what they mean, why you've got them.

See, maps all people see. They choose to ignore, choose to decide against acknowledgement. You know they're there though, know the reason for each new track, know where the ones are that have physically faded away. You know the words that certain lines make if connected by one too familiar sharp blade or needle if you would choose to play connect the dots. However, you wish others might see too, not for pity no, no, no. You wish for people to see that there is more to these maps, places you've been and never want to be again, stories of places you wish you could some day go. There are more to these maps, these lines, these cuts, than meets the eye. If only people would pay attention to these maps that they see, patiently wait while you explain how you went from one destination to the other, and then they could show you how to travel without sharply traced maps.

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Louis Tomlinson's really losing himself. He hasn't been to class in a week and he hasn't slept much either. He isn't sure where his weight is going but his football coach keeps telling him he's lighter on his feet. Maybe he should stop, stop, stop to think and remember where he is, what he needs to do, or just pay attention to the name of the person's bed he wakes up in. He doesn't see the right body, the right face, the right something. He's scared, so, so terrified because when did he even get here? The maps are wrong, he agrees, the needle pricks out of place. They aren't his, can't be his. He'll just keep waiting, follow the ball across the field, try to stay awake, tell the boy with the powder and the needles "please, please not." He'll say he wont, the addiction will say he will. The lights are dim again and when did he have such little will? Maybe it's the bodies, the music, the energy. Maybe he's lost. Where's the boy with the green eyes, the curls from his class? He's sure that he has seen that boy here in this dim space. Oh, why can't he find his way out of this place?