She has grown. But that you can see. Time and space cause growth, and she’s had both. She has laughed and she has cried. You can tell that with or without me. Seasons go by, whether we allow it or not. Leaves fall, rain pours, and green is inevitable, as are fears and broken dreams. White is predictable, as are smiles and tears. Her spirit has broken, her dreams have changed and made it hard to keep track of who she is. Some have come true when she has let them go. Her mind changes faster than her dreams. Birds catch her awake more often than she would like. Nights are spent alone, and days are spent away. Red wine is an unconditional friend with a touch that makes steel vulnerable. She can’t point at a reason but she can find as many as you need to know. She can bear any thought, except the image of herself as a child- that’s cue for guilt, and guilt she can’t stand. She still cares but cares more about looking like she doesn’t. Blue is her color, but she dyes it red any chance she gets. Grey she still hates, and finds it fascinating when someone lives by it. She’d steal stability from the most innocent being, but only because she knows she would then be able to give it back. She’s still good, deep inside. She knows what she doesn’t want, but it doesn’t make knowing what she wants any easier. She just can’t find the words. Irony makes her smile and cry, as irony should. She can’t give up on language but she wishes her mind could go back to black, and her lungs back to breathing in water. She needs you, but she’ll never admit it.
She knows hate is nothing but wasted love.
She’s trying to change.
But isn’t everyone?