i can and i will

Because it's almost new year's eve, i'm obligated to reflect on this year and everything i did or everything it did to me.
Actually with this beeing the end of this decade i'll have to dive deeper and review more than just 2019.

its been a long time
since i wrote this story

but now i found the words again
to continue my path

through the new chapter
of this typed out life

i wish i would invest the hours that i spent with googling beauty doctors in learning to fix my soul, rather than my face.
i wish i could invest the days i spent laying in bed and feeling as shitty as i look, reading books and finding out more about the world instead of more imperfections on my body.
Instead of opening parcels with new clothes, i should open up my mind.

i spent way too much time trying to impress men, that are not even worth my attention.
i don't understand why i'm searching for recognition in strangers, longing after being wanted by fuckboys, in being objectived and loved for just a few minutes.
i dont know why, because afterwards all i do is shower for hours, trying to get their poisen out of my system.

i'm scared of grwoing older and of wrinkles and bigger eyebags and not being whistled at by creepy men.  
and i'm aware that i'm stupid for being more afraid of being rejected than of being molested and killed.

i'm naive for thinking that i would be happier if i was just pretty - as if the darkness in my heart  and all my worries would disappear and the cloud over my head would lighten up, if my hair was blond, my teeth less yellow and my eyes brighter.
i wish i could dye my thoughts like i dye my hair.

i wish i would be happy with being full of food, instead i'm fed up with my own needs.
i should be happy for not starving like so many people are, instead i wish i could just rip off my fat and feel my bones again.

imagine i didn't have to hide all my mirrors behind black scarfs like i hide my selfhatred behind arrogance.
i guess not supposed to mourn the lost of my self-confidence, when sectretly i'd celebrate my own death.

i tell myself to be more grateful and less demanding, i want to force myself to be happy with what i got, with the genes my parents gave me, but i find myself too often desiring to shrink my nose and grow my boobs, and even then i would find new things to hate.

i need to replace my insecurity with determination and my self-loathing with self-loving but i could as well scream into the void, it would have the same effect.

i should demand respect and love from myself, but that's impossible if i dont know how i feels to be appreciated by other people. and it's a lot to ask someone to be with you, i you can't even stand yourself.

i try to spent more time being happy and less time being fat and self-critical, but that's hard when chocolate is the only thing that's there for me at 3 am.
But sugar doesn't fill the hole, neither do dicks.

People tell me that my selfworth should be determined by my actions and words and not my weight or the length of my hair, but i'm being more judged by my bad looks than my good intentions.

i know that my body is not as much of a problem as my brain, but i feel like i'd be much happier with out both of them.
instead of being a superficial bitch i should just be a strong bitch, a woman that doesn't give a fuck about what people think, a woman whos not afraid of being judged.

i aim to try less to be beautiful  and more to be better, to be a good person and not a pretty woman, but i'm succeeding at neither one of them.

lonely boy is alone a lot. even though he says he never is. 
he wishes to be more alone. 
he doesn't seem to notice or deny that he's lonely. 
he apparently is around people a lot. 
he's tired of being around so many people, they bore him, they annoy him. they bother him.

lonely boy needs more alone time.
but in his alone time, he's not alone. 
still, he feels lonely. 
maybe he even wishes to be around people, but when he is, he wishes he'd be alone.
maybe those are the wrong people. 
maybe he's wrong. 
about people. 
about himself. 
about who he is, how he acts, how he wants to be seen. 

lonely boy might be happy with just himself.  
maybe he knows himself so well, 
maybe he so content with himself that he doesn't need anybody else. 
maybe no one is able to keep up with his awesomeness. 
maybe he is just perfectly fine on his own.
Some think that lonely boy just hasn't found someone who is able to complete him. 
or is compatible with him.

lonely boy never invites anyone. 
into his life. or his home. 
whatever that might be.
maybe he's so full of himself, that there's not room for others, 
maybe they find him anti-social and dont want to be around him. 
maybe he's so hollow on the inside that nobody wants to stay around in his heart. 
maybe lonely boy is sad.

lonely boy is not able to connect with people. 
maybe he just doesn't want to. 
lonely boy is not interested in friendships or partnerships.
he's not able to connect or establish any relationship, not interested in keeping it alive, 
watering the plant of friendship or let love bloom. 

lonely boy doesnt need sexual intimiacy or long conversations on sunday nights
his body doesn't miss hugs and his mind doesn't starve without love. 
lonely boy might not even know how to love. 
he's a mystery to me.

lonely boy is maybe better than all of us. 
happy to be by himself. 
not dependent on other people's feedback and opinons, not craving human touch.
the human being 2.0.
better than all of us animals, who are only able to survive in packs.

lonely boy might just be an egoistic asshole. 
not caring about anyone but himself. 
so arrgoant and sure of himself that he just can't be bothered with the realities of anyone else.
maybe he just can't. 
maybe he's ill. 

lonely boy seems lonely to me. but he seeks to be alone. 
he can't stand the closeness. 
he doesn't open up.
cant's share his past, won't commuincate about his present and doens't want you in his future.
there is not place in his life for anyone else.
he is not interested in your inner thoughts or feelings. 
he might not even care about his own.

lonely boy is alone a lot, even though he is always around people.
lonely boy feels never lonely, even though he's never with anyone.
lonely boy might not be lonely, but i am when i'm with him.

the skeletons of the naked trees have given up on standing tall and proud.
not one leave is left,
everything has turned into dust and dirt inbetween the cracks of the paving stones.
not a single one is recognizable anymore.
the trees, once proud and majestic, are now broken and bend, just enduring their fate,
trying to withstand the opportunity to drop their branches as well,
letting them break away and fall down on the muddy ground.

you dont know how loneliness feels like, until you watched the trees struggling in the winter
and then grow again in spring, new and fresh, full of potential, leaning towards the sun -
without anybody noticing it.
you dont know how lonliness feels like, until something good happens
and you have no one to talk about it.
you're used to people ignoring the boney, bare-branched plants,
because people dont like to look at unpleasant things.
if it doesnt sparkle healthy and screams out of joy,
we dont notice it, even if it bleeds diamond dust.

you're used to people ignoring bad news or your feelings of sadness or
the waves of depression and crippling self-doubt that come and go,
coming more often and staying longer as time goes on,
but it's a whole new way of rejectment
if nobody gives a fuck when you get better.
being alone while dealing with negative feelings is hard,
enduring a hard, cold winter is a struggle,
exhausting but worth it, a part of the wheel of time.
it's easier to cope with it, because you know at some point it will be over
and summer will always come again.
you will able to participate again in "normal" life,
seeing people, doing chores, suffering the "normal" amount again,
learning how refreshing it is to just be sad about a broken heart
or getting mad at a fuckboy and talking about it with your friends.

but what if there's no such thing like a relief at the end?
if you're forever repeating january,
cold sleet dropping from the dark sky, melted snow mixed with dog poop.
is being better worth anything, if no one notices it?
if no one sees the first rays of sunshine reflecting in the dirty puddle of old rainwater,
if no one celebrates you surviving once more?

right now, nobody cares how i feel.
not in a they-dont-ask-or-worry-way, more in a it-doesnt-matter-how-i-am-way.
because it doesnt. it has no influence on anyones life.
i dont produce oxygen or look beauiful at the sides of a road,
i'm useless.
if i cant leave my bed or eat or sleep or meet them or even just talk to them,
it makes no difference,
because they dont need me to be here.
i have no purpose,
nobody asks me for my opinion or needs my help or just wants to hang out with me.
there are more important things, better ways to waste time.
there's no one fighting with me to stay with them and no one celebrating the win in the end.
it's unimportant where i am, if i'm well or not, if i'm busy or not, if i'm happy or not,
if i'm anything at all.
that's the real, gut-wrenching kind of loneliness. the one where nothing even matters.
i don't know how the trees are able to bear that.

i thought about using new words for you,
but the situation is not new.
we broke up a hundred times before.
i thougt about creating new rhymes for you,
but the feeling of things not adding up,
of everything sounding wrong ist not new,
so i won't do that.

i thought about just using an old blog post for you,
because heartbreak is always the same,
so why not just re-use every old poem that i wrote
with tears in my eyes and blood streaming down my body -
well i cant do that, because every asshole that i dated before you
was a sweet gentleman in comparison to you,
every abuser in my life was a kind friend
in comparison to how you treated me.

i thought about using a new plattform,
maybe a new diary or notebook to document our story,
but oh boy,
i would have to tell so many lies
to fill those blank pages with words worth reading,
i would almost tell as many lies as you.

i also thought about writing with a new pen,
as if the fresh ink would distract the reader
from the naive protagonist, the poor girl
who was so in love with a boy and human kind and the good in people
that she would just accept everything he did to her,
as long as he did it in the name of love.
she would patiently wait for every punch in the face
because he kissed each bruise afterwards
and smile about every knife in her stomach,
that he stabbed into her and slowly turned,
as long as he put his dick inside her, too.
But even white ink on white paper couldnt hide his crimes.

i thought about writing with a new attitude, a forgiving one,
warm and full of love for memories that never happened
and lies that i told myself to keep me warm at night,
when you didnt hold me.
but then i would be just like you,
gaslighting myself, lying and betraying the person i should love the most,
being the unloyal bastard that i wasted almost two years on.
and thats something i never want to be again.

i thought i admired you, i thought i respected you
and wanted to be more like you, but i was wrong.
i thought my only chance to be loved by you was to become like you,
but the more i behaved like you, the more you hated me -
well dear. i wonder why.
i let you take away the best of me.
you almost got away with making me cold and uncaring,
judgmental and mistrusting, a coward and a cheater.
but i didnt let you win.

in the end, i thought about not writing about you at all,
because you're worth none of my work,
and every word is already spoken
and i have nothing left to say,
but i dont write for you to feel special or to pity me or to take the blame,
i write for myself, because i deserve the closure
and i write for every other girl, that might be unlucky enough to meet you,
and i just want to tell her, run, because you deserve so much better.

look at me,
born as pure as a blank piece of paper.
and look at me now: i'm crinkled and full of cuts,
full of lies and crossed out words.
and non of those words are mine.
strangers wrote all over me.

i'm full of the traces others left on me,
between the lines you might read
that they treated me like they've been treated before,
so don't blame them for dealing with their pain
in an unhealthy, destructive way,
they never learned to do it differently.

from generation to generation,
you get this burden of tragedy,
wrapped like a nice present under the christmas tree.
you'll wear it with pride and predjudice,
it'll be heavy and smother you, until you panic and run away.
here comes the (bride with the) commitment issues.

9 months pregnant with this foul aftertaste,
the bad words left in your mouth: "love","promise","support",
burning on your tongue like the lies never did.
the truth is hard to swallow,
the knowledge that something isn't right
and not like it should be, chokes you,
but with the right drink everything washes down quickly.

in labour, shouting at the child you're bearing,
as if it's her fault, that she has her father's eyes,
that you once longingly looked into
like you saw a bright future in them.
the baby is born,
or should i say the product of something that nobody would dare to call love.
congrats, it's emotional instability!

for every kiss there is also a fist being placed on a face,
every nice word is worth nothing,
if it's shouted in an ear at night
instead of whispered the next morning.
there's nothing good or pure in this world,
everything we do is based on our own egoistic wishes and twisted perception,
everythig turns to shit at some point, no matter how beautiful it has been.

every blank page of every new notebook
will end up in unreadable scribbles about nothing,
dark ink will sink into the white pages
and turn innocence into something evil.
look at me, born as pure as an empty piece of paper.
and now i'm the diary of a dyfunctional family,
who could write a book about bad decisions
and this is a poem of pain.