Life is the opposite of fair. You can be determined to have a good day and still find some fucker willing to drive through a puddle just to splash your new white skirt. You can resolve to stop being broken and your mind won’t necessarily lay down its weapons in its stupid, self-defeating war against you. You can get dressed up in the best black dress you’ve ever seen, eagerly paint your mouth red and show up to the party looking like the best version of yourself. But there will still be some girl in a pale dress who looks like a fucking princess. You’ll want to go home and cry into a bottle of vodka. Life ain’t fair.
So it seems the only solution is to get very angry. Stand soaking on the roadside and scream obscenities at that idiot in his shitty car. If your mind wants a war, don’t you dare give up before you’ve shown it a good fight. That girl in the perfect dress? Ignore her. Get very drunk and spend the evening smoking with boys your parents would hate. Get talked about in the worst way.
Life is worse than unfair. It’s a cheap magician trying to pick your pockets while he fumbles easy card tricks. You think you can get through it drifting along like a dreamer, like a victim? You think anyone gives enough of a fuck to save you when you’re drowning? When life trips you up, don’t you lie there on the ground waiting for someone to take pity on you. Get up. Spit out a mouthful of blood and several of your teeth. Wipe the dirt off that dress and keep going. If the only reason to keep going is pure spite, that’s good enough. At least you’re alive. You’re one step ahead. Don’t fight fair - your opponent sure as hell won’t.
I don’t know how to feel whole anymore. I don’t know how to shake a stranger’s hand without slipping a note in their palm before I walk away. I don’t know how to look in the mirror and say, “You belong to yourself. This is you. These hands are yours, these hipbones are yours, this battle…it’s yours.”
I hear silverware dropping as I stir cream into my coffee and I hear the rain crying against my window on the sunniest of days. I love and love, writing about heartache while I break hearts in the dead of night. I don’t know how to take this pain and hold it in my hand long enough to grasp it, to own it, to make it right.
I make my bed in the morning to the hum of regret and hang pearls on the skeletons in my closet. I kick stilettos off after a long day and let my hair fall to my shoulders as I wipe off red lipstick on the back of my hand. The year has fucked me night after night and I’m too weak to say no.
I grasp a stranger’s hand and kiss their cheek, shaking my happiness into their life. Smile, laugh, take these memories and run. Please don’t stop running until you belong to yourself again. Don’t stop running until you are strong enough to bury the skeletons in your closet in the midnight hours. Don’t stop running until you can exhale a sigh of relief over a cup of hot tea and say, “This battle…it’s mine.