Introvert

29

'Beneath all these ribs

beats the most stubborn of hearts.

All the beats are yours.' Tyler Knott Gregson, Daily Haiku on Love

||Shyanna||

I'd never been the type of person who got butterflies. I'd always seemed to be the stoic one in every environment. The one who was unmoved because she'd already faced the worst. In this case, however, I can't stop moving. 

The whole lesson, I'm torn between staring at Niall's beautiful, guitar-marred fingers and the pen shaking in my grip. I've written prose, not poetry, but it might as well be poetry. The only thing I feel right now is poetic, full of words that brim on chapped and kiss-bruised lips.

He hasn't said anything, much, is the only thing I've noticed. He's muttered to Zayn about the trouble with Louis -it seems so distant, now, the moments I'd spent watching Niall from my peripheral in the bathroom. I have no idea why it took me seeing Louis looking vulnerable to make me strong, but I have a feeling that it was the admission he whispered to my ear.

Nobody cleans me up.

And isn't that so true? Nobody cleans you up. You have to get rid of the ache yourself. The dust, the sadness, the ache. People stop that, distance themselves from it. But the blood? The self hatred? The self doubting moments? You're left on your own for so long that you often forget there is anyone there.

But there is. Because Anna and Kristy are there, always, brimming on the edge of my thoughts at all times. Anna and Kristy who have felt the strike of homophobia in a way that burns more than what Louis went through. Emotional torment doesn't end. Physical torment heals after a while. Which is why I so rarely hurt myself on purpose any more. The emotional torment doesn't end. But I don't need to add onto the pain by marring what's left of my smooth skin. It's only when it gets too much all at once that I ever bother. And why would I? The inside of my head is a dark, ugly, disgusting place. The scars on my body are ugly, repulsive and not a sign of strength. 

They shouldn't be romanticized. You wouldn't romanticize a broken leg. So why would you do it with mental illness? It's an illness. You don't make colds out to be something somebody can save you from.

Nobody saves you in real life. There's no knight in shining armor. No princess in battle gear. No monarchy in charge. There is you, and there is the whole world. And you're not alone, but you shouldn't ever rely upon other people. You make you. You become more yourself every day you live. The people who help you along the way are wonderful, and worthy of your love. But they aren't the only people who deserve credit. You do, for staying strong enough to keep going. For rolling out of bed even when you don't feel like you should be alive. 

Nobody cleans you up until you make it known that you're unclean. Nobody washes a car until they see it in the right light and realize it's actually dirty as all hell and they should soap it up. 

Nobody cleans you up, but sometimes you know who you'd be willing to help you through the worst. 

My eyes don't waver from Niall as I write the final line of my poem/prose/hopelessly-sappy-piece-of writing-with-no-real-reason. 

I know who I'd let the sponge be.

||Niall|| {after the lesson}