I'm four years past a dozen, my soul and my body feels so much older, wiser and more battered and bruised than it should be in this year.
I'm stitched up in a gruesome way and my eyes still don't see the same. I'm part broken and poorly fixed. my heart wants to be everywhere and everyone, just not here or me. I'm not the greater version of myself; the perfect picture my mind paints when it wonders into the woods, down the paths surrounded by nature and sunshine.
there is few, but some, lines upon my physique. the kind of lines you get from too much contagious smiling or joyous laughter. why are those lines only on the outside?
I'm closed off and distant, but somehow attached and never truly alone. I am too much on the inside to control one feeling or hold onto one thought. I am too much on the inside for someone to look and love my insides.
the poem will run on like my veins, my face will get older and my soul still the same. when my roots stretch, I want to reach the sunshine - at least enough to feel the warmth tickle my pale and my insides. I want to grasp onto happiness and discover love in its true element, inside myself.
and to this poem: I want to write you again. I want you to be realer than that perfect portrait of myself in my head, and by then I may be somewhere on those paths, in the woods, surrounded by the beauty of natures mother.
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Bethany Louise Rose,
in the style of Tyler Kent White
2014/15
