There once was someone I knew that had regrets. So many. So so many. They hated themself more than anything anyone else has done to them. People would say they were lovely. They would say that they were kind and carefree with a life free to enjoy blessed by the choice the mother chose to give birth to them. Many looked at them and say they know them, they SEE them. But do they? They only see what they chose to show hiding the impurities of the mind beneath its hollow exterior. Beneath the surface do they see? Like the words in a book written by the author's complex thoughts, do they see it beneath the well-threaded words?
Their anxiety, their inferiority. They turn themself into someone, not them. I see them changing like the silver moon every night into someone different every day. Taking hold of themself, twisting, moulding them into something far unrecognizable from the person they once saw reflected in the crescent-shaped mirror sitting on their desk beside an exquisitely crafted china doll. Sometimes they struggled. They struggle with so much weighing on the crown others had placed upon their head. People say that they were clever and with little effort could achieve anything but what they didn't understand that it did take lots of effort. It took more effort to attend to the needless expectations held against them. To their name, like the sins held against criminals; rotting in a cell that they called their mind. People tell them to work harder, harder, harder, and harder. To fulfil the responsibility they OWED to their selfish mother who gave birth to them without taking any responsibility. But they are tired. They were a fighter from a young age, they worked hard. Beaten, they were yelled at. Broken, they were held together with thin wires. They were in pain, from the endless cycle they found themself borne into. They grew up secluded from the outside, not knowing common sense but the multitude of wonder that came from books when they escaped into them. No matter what they read it was marked in the bright colour red,' Fantasy'. Just like their life permanently marked with the genre, ' horror'. When they have finally found freedom at the age18 they had unintentionally found another gate to hell waiting for them.
Older, they find it so hard to do things they want to do. They find that their dreams have died before they have even met the light. They are older now. They learned to sympathize now. Learned to understand. Learned to forgive regardless of the crime committed to them. They were immature before they learned to do this- was what they thought. They were in pain, in anger- an animal unable to subside itself. Lashing out like a ticking bomb leaving a collage of scars on their arm. They knew it was wrong and so they changed, that was when they fell into a neverending curse by repeating the same mistake once again by changing.
Bottling their anger, pain, sorrow, tears, scars, and many more all inside them. They pretended like it didn't exist. They pretended they were ok. For a long time, they felt that this was right, this was correct. Deep down somewhere in the bottomless hole of the bottle, they knew it wasn't. They forgave everyone, the people who put them in misery, the people who caused them pain, the people who caused the anger and irreplaceable damage. In response to this change, people started to take advantage of this. Their heart was too full of sympathy forgiving everyone who gave them an excuse to believe in the capricious lies woven over their closed eyes. They manipulated themselves to accept the excuses and in their brain, they would accept anything that was thrown at them. Soon excuses were not even needed by the abusers as the victim would form some for them, out of the twisted logic ingrained in their being.
They didn't notice. For so long. It was arduous for the people who wished them well; who truly wanted happiness for them; who truly cared and loved them, to wait for the person to realize themself what they were doing. It was within themselves that they could only escape from this never-ending loop, and when they did? The bottle had exploded.
A tide that drowned the screams of everyone around them, rushed outwards from the gaping hole in their chest as they broke free from the chains holding them together. No one could ever change their decision anymore. Brought unwillingly into this blasted world to serve the selfish decision of their mother who placed the blame and responsibility on the one born from her womb, serving the endless desires of those around them, they will not let anyone take away their freedom to leave this blasted world. Not even those who loved them. Their decision was made and could be seen from the knife inserted deeply into their chest with multiple slices sliding down the veins in their arms. No one could have anticipated this from the mindless cycle they had lived. Now laying in a sealed jar 6 feet below in the tomb was the person I had loved. I do not blame them for it was the first decision that I had witnessed they had PERSONALLY taken to gain happiness for themself. A lucky escape from the hands of fate can never be done with one pair of hands. It takes one pair to hold the knife and another to prevent the discovery of the deed until it was done.