I wish I could write about the things that don’t hurt. like how the sky fights against the dark shoreline of trees. or how the sun makes everything glow golden in the mornings. and how the horses’ tails sway effortlessly back and forth as they graze the ground below them. But I can’t do that, I don’t know how. Or maybe I could write about the red windmill in the backyard that creaks and turns as the wind pushes through it. I hear the wind chimes and I’m reminded of my grandfather, reminded of his life and how his voice always boomed through the earth, the windchimes doing the same now. I wish I could write about how I feel when I look at him. I’ve been broken for a while now and gave up on that feeling, but he brings a different light than what I’ve seen before, kind of like the golden sun in the morning. I want to write about the warmth of the sun burning my back and I spread across the sheets waking up in the morning. The feeling of the tears running down my face when the boy gets the girl. the happy ending. I want to write about mom’s wildflowers that she planted in the garden, and how they shot from the ground and created a display of pattern and active color. At night, I open the door and see the night sky polluted with the burning stars, freckled with the white dots that remind me how small I am, how small my problems are.
I want to write about that.
I focus on the things that hurt because that’s what you told me to do. Never expect the best, conceal those emotions, they’re bad for you anyway. I want to write of the things that make me happy but you stole that from me a long time ago.
But I look past what I’ve written now, and the words in me are more powerful than you. I see the truth, only in me, not in you.