Unread and Untitled

This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,–
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me! 

To my heart’s core, I feel sick. Sick and tired and worn out. Enough is so darned enough.

When I look at myself and say or state, I never assume that what I am saying is true for everyone or what I am saying is a pure FACT, why? Because I know my heart and I don’t know anyone else’s. I don’t know what stages or circumstances the other person goes through. For stuff I always give MYSELF justifications. But I am sick of that. Sick of cutting myself open for people who will do nothing more than cut more. I am tired. I am half-crazed keeping my damn mouth shut. Sick of letting everyone have their way. You don’t trust me? You don’t like me? You think I am a liar a fool a cheat a player or other terms you so frequently and tonelessly use. Leave me alone. I am not gonna sit here let you say all that or I am not going to prove myself. I am purple. I don’t exist

But, if for a second you thought of knowing me, rather than making up baseless assumptions as per your life experiences. YOU NEVER MET SOMEONE QUITE LIKE ME. And I swear that you won’t. And what did you do? Make me a victim of indirect accusations? You know who I am? I am a kid who is barely of age. I am a kid that met so many liars and cheats than putting your thirty years together I am a kid who watched her dad die right in front of her bloody eyes in that bloody ccu I am the kid who’s gonna die of cancer in just a couple of years to come AND STILL YOU THINK YOU KNOW ME?

Hear me, oh stranger. I too possess a half-healed soul. I too die every night and still wake up every morning. I am a kid who never quite understood how to play games. For a second there, when I met you, I thought I found a friend. But you smashed me with the perceptions that my soul never tasted. Just because you know my name doesn’t mean you know my life! I am as pure as that wind that talks to me every morning. Hate me if you may, leave me if you may, don’t mistake me, don’t accuse me. I am not asking you back. I never had anyone from the beginning and oh stranger, I have long been standing far from the maddening crowd.

Now I walk away

(Stanza from Emily Dickinson)

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