Drenched with ink and drilled with holes, my journey can aid shattered souls. Shaven sides and ego in check, my story can fix the worst of wrecks. Blistered hands and aching feet, my fight has been quite something to beat.
Make me your claws when your fingers are numb. Allow me to share the road I’ve crawled from. From weak to strong, from right to wrong, my words will pour like a methodical song.
When things seem rough, you’ve had enough, remind yourself you’ve gotta be tough. From rags and bugs, to bags of drugs, I’ve had to learn the meaning of love.
Take my hand, I’ll help you stand, we’ll fix the time that ran outta sand. I wish you would, I know you could, do it for you the way that you should.
Laying on the cold, hard floor, looking like a thousand trains traversed her soul, she awaits to be taken. Never has she known before the extent of love and the excruciating pain it can leave behind when broken.
She sees dancing imaginary glimpses of the one she has lost, the one who got away. Through the trees, the ripples of the seas, and in snow-covered fields, she desperately searches.
Blaming herself won’t do any good, but perhaps the other might think that she should. She spirals away, further every day, without a glimmer of hope inside her starving broken-down untamed and unkempt body.
She shivers and weeps in the day, and runs everything through before sleep in the night. The scream for help is silent to not be a disturbance in other people’s busy chaotic life.
The screaming, the shaking and shivering, the bad dreams that wake her non-stop are all not enough to reconnect with the one that she lost.
She is strong, but feels weak. She has hope, but it’s bleak. Speaking unheard prayers, for an answer in seek. Her heart no longer thumps, it pounds and it aches, she wonders how much more her mind and body can take.
As minutes seem like never-ending days and weeks seem like eternity, she gathers the courage within to not lose her head and identity.
She gets up from the ground, without making a sound, once she has dragged to the pile with her claws all the rocks placed around.
“It is what it is” is the phrase she repeats, “I can’t beat it, I just can’t let it beat me”.
A new day commences, her body gained strength. She can now brush her teeth and walk certain short lengths. The light in the tunnel shines bright in the end. It was dark for a while but she stood; did not bend.
She looks down at her now-so-skinny arm, at the ink popping from her skin a while back that was drawn. “You got this” it reads, not knowing before what “this” would implore. She finally feels free to be strong like before.
At the end of the day, we are all simply a soul in a shell. Our level of comfort in our skin, and whether our stereotype-sorting society accepts us or not, will not matter when the flowers cover our grave and our soul leaves our package. We will not be remembered for the way we comb our hair or the colour of the clothes we wear. Our existence goes much deeper than the prints our worn-out shoes leave on the earth we travel. Our limbs and body parts do not define us, and our outer appearance is nothing but a box that will one day disintegrate.
The real you, your true self, the person you were born to become and meant to be, and the legacy you leave behind, are far more important aspects than the coulour of your eyes, your complexion, and your height or size.
A body without a soul is just a shell we once roamed in. The bones become cold and the skin becomes stiff when you depart. It therefore should not matter if we identify more with one gender than the other or have different and unique body art.
Nobody should be considered a minority, because all beings were created as equal. Those without this knowledge, in my opinion, have yet to live and learn.