It took me a long time to write this piece.
It took me a long time to gather my tears, just to toss them out.
I had to weed through my pile of past transgressions, soiled relationships and tumultuous events before I could see the true colors of my heart.
It took me a long time to get my mind right.
My confidence was on mountain but my circumstances were on gutter.
There was no in between for me and the way that I moved.
I was either scrapping, or I was soaring.
Never coasting because that would be too casual.
I was terror,
but I was triumph too.
It took me a long time to remember,
because I spent years trying to forget.
At 13 I looked myself in the mirror and envisioned all the ways I could die.
I wanted to kill myself.
My house came in the form of several hotels.
The hospital was my second home.
My identity was just as obscure as the scar that stretched across my right breast,
because it was coated in blood.
It took me a long time to heal,
because I haven’t yet.
It’s an everlasting process involving all of the feelings that keep me up at night.
It’s an ongoing duel between who I was and who I want to be.
It’s a conflict of interest concerning my innermost thoughts and what I reveal to the world.
It took me a long time to get here.
It took me a long time to become a woman whose skin has grown as thick as the plot she finds herself in.
Long story short,
I am just as abstract as the situations that place themselves in my path,
but my response to this fact is quite simple:
I am going to cast out the same fires that birthed me.
I am going to make sure I never see a single flame again.
Poet: Stefanie Parrott