The girl who survived...

I once knew a girl who drew with silver. Her art told stories, stories of pain and love. They could move mountains with the sorrow they shared. She was never in more control then when she had the blade between her fingers. Movements, deep, short, precise. Unforgiving. She drew unlike any other, and kept the stories to herself. She spoke them softly at twilight, when it was just her and the thoughts of her mind. In those moments she was at her most vulnerable though no one knew but the moon and stars. She drew to forget all other feeling aside from the story she was crafting, she drew because what else was there to do. It was the only way she knew how to drown out the pain. I once knew a girl who could turn blood and scars, into the most beautifully haunting story, her story. If people listened carefully they could hear the storm brewing within her, how she longed for the blade, how she longed to hold on long enough to create just one more story. I once knew a girl who drew with a blade. She stopped, when it no longer stopped the pain but joined it. When it became another source of sorrow, and so she was no longer the girl who drew with silver. That was her first name the one she cherished the most.

She became the girl with ink. All over her arms black and blue took over, the ink staining everywhere. They tell new stories, temporary ones, because she could never quite believe that what she had would be permanent. She was right of course, so sometimes she would go back to the blade. But deep in her soul,no matter how much she longed for it, she was not the girl with the blade anymore. The ink took over every part of her life, anywhere you looked you would find it. Across ankles, thighs, back, and ears, her arms, fingers the most. Everywhere you looked ink. She loved it, pen gave her a chance to rewrite the less happy parts, gave a chance to change the endings she knew were coming. It was a chance to stop the tears from flowing. Then it stopped, another person corrupted her artform for her. Took it relentlessly and without realizing that she needed it. So the stories stopped, and no one realized. And now she wasn’t the girl with ink. As the story goes on, another name was lost.

In another attempt she became the girl that wrote, thousands of words, hundreds of stories, something to drown out the pain. It was never enough, it was a temporary peace, a fix she knew was never gonna last. She longed for it, the peace it brought to her. Turned her away from sleep, instead causing her to dive deep into the feelings she kept under lock and key. It turned out for the best, it taught her how to overcome the unrest within her soul, but like all things it was not meant to last. Once again like all other times in the past, she was no longer the girl who wrote to keep the demons away. She still has the writing hidden away. Some in boxes scattered throughout her room, hidden in plain sight, just like her pain. Others backed onto her laptop, hidden from the world, while in reality nothing more then a click away. Notebooks worth of writing, enough to write several lifetimes of pain stored between seats. Her heart was heavy, forced to carry a burden she never asked for. She knew that was selfish no one ever asked for it, but still. The girl who wrote was no more.

Long before she was the girl who drew with silver, she was the girl who was happy. She was carefree, eyes lit up with joy and wonder about the world around her. Even as the life slowly left her grandfather, she held on to the childish naivety that there was hope. And when he was gone so was she, because the girl who was happy could never exist without him. And he would never be around again so why pretend she was ever happy. If you asked her what the first name she had, she would say the girl who drew with a blade. If you paid close attention you would hear her pause, because for a moment she knew that was lie. Long before she was the girl with silver, she was the girl who lost her joy.

She soon lost her grasp on reality, if she was not the girl who cut, the girl with ink, the girl who wrote. Who was she. She searched, all she was met with was pain. She laid down her sword, the pen, and words. Left alone with nothing but the thoughts and past. And the never forgetting demons. By the time people noticed she was far too gone, past the point of no return, and now they wanted to help. She wanted to scream, shout, something. Instead just as quick as before the mask was back, uncracked. Everyone fell for her lies of being fine, that she was happy, that she was out of the dark. No one realized she became the dark. She took joy in being the girl who could turn from light to dark without a second thought. The girl who stopped fighting the dark and let herself fall into its abyss.

She became the girl with the mask. A mask made of her own darkness, fooling everyone to believe it's her light. Of course to those who truly knew her and she could count that number on one hand. They knew she was the girl who gave in to the darkness, and wore it like war paint, all while turning it into the perfect mask. The dark became the light, and she was never more in control and broken then when she was the girl who turned the dark into a light.

Of course eventually she chased the demons away, even they began to fear her hold on the darkness, and at some point she wasn’t the girl who was the darkness. So she tried again, becoming the girl who paints. Never on paper, always on my arm, hidden from everyone’s view. This time she didn’t need anyone, she doesn't need anyone, not anymore at least that's what she screamed to her reflection everyone she saw her eyes. She fought herself and lost, and then somehow won.

She picked herself back up, and pieced the remains of her heart all on her own. She stopped being the girl who cut, because she didn’t want the scars to be the way she shared her story anymore. She stopped being the girl with ink, because they stopped fading away fast enough, they made her feel cursed. Who knows perhaps she was, maybe she was suffering for whatever pain she caused in a past life. She stopped being the girl who wrote out of fear, fear that maybe she was beyond saving.

I know her story because it is mine the one etched within my skin.

I am beyond saving believe me I've tried, but I’m still breathing. I stopped being the girl who was the darkness because others needed a light, and I refused to let them give up without a fight. I fought for them because no one ever fought for me. I’ve become the girl who paints, until my arms are marked completely. Then I’ll move on, never staying for too long. I've gone by many names searching helplessly for one that fits.

They will of course always be a part of me, the scars, ink, words, darkness, paint. I am the girl who’s broken, the one who wanted the pain to stop so bad she gave into it. The one who tries to save everyone around her because she can’t save herself. The girl who’s drowning even though she loves to swim. These are all me, I’m the girl, the one who doesn’t know what the future holds, but is trying to make it there.

I'm the girl who survived. And I think I'm starting to like the sound of it.