What I'm Made Of

_{Photo by Gustavo Sousa on Unsplash}

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“I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly.” — Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait In Letters.

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My eyes are mists of sunken hope and pity that I glued behind blue mirrors. When I can no longer fathom how my bare orbs had eaten my entire nervous system, I called it a fashion statement. Sometimes I trace on black ink and have them dictate my barren wholeness like a naked entity. I am simply terrified of people discovering my monstrous limbs as if I am born with open flesh. They will see through my barriers cutting like gunpowder that even my nebulous hands cannot fist. This doesn't calm my chaotic brain. The thought of being held from a distance and seen like no other did me horribly that I had to reside beneath the skin of my other skins.

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These marks and scars just don't die yet and they're itching with imagery I don't want to remember. As if ignoring a sullen mind that enumerates the ugly things is gonna recover me from these bruises, but they don't. Instead, they intensify like a god burden with glory that even these long clotted flesh above my bones sting as if it never once healed. I am an inside of a rotten tire that no one sees no matter what tenderness caresses my soul.

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My hair is the slightest touch of morning sunshine but often they camouflage in the dark. My frizzled dreams were locked in every fiber that consists of my life and dignity that no one should witness. They grow in a blink as if I am watering a garden. With my hair long and down, it's as if I mirror what I looked like when I was younger. Careless and blank of self-sabotage. Innocent and free of madness. I think it just didn't sit right with a futuristic girl all over the filth of a cruel life. It infuriates my insides as if burning every sane nerve.

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Those were the days when strands of golden above my head vanished like an abyss because I hate appearing as dead as I was. It whispers desperation. No one fancies such a thing. My reflection arises unwanted disgust and faulty existence. I want to shatter what seems a summary of my becoming and color it bland enough that I become a bypass in someone else's museum.

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I am so far from being a mere ornament that complements neutral colors. I'm not supposed to be a dot in some plain-looking wall that everybody visibly sees. There is nothing pleasant and artistic from the fossils I threaded onto my epidermis. There is only pent-up outrage that my sanity fears. What I'm afraid of are my imperfections that bare my entirety to everyone. I feel like being ripped apart isn't getting rid of this sickness but is just as vile. And I will be out in the open like a rouge.

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I would rather be a piece of life that fades in time. Maybe I should be a fallen leaf left to decay in nature because I simply cannot bear the living. The people in it were as delusional beyond their thinking and I don't seem to fit in elsewhere. It made me believe that being human in between tiny differences of people is a natural thing one should learn. And I have been trying so hard to be normal yet I still can't find my place here and there. I don't know what I am despite reliving every possible life I stumble upon. I am not certain of how I project my façade to people if they were even too forceful or obvious. If they have even become my identity or what I only allow others to see as me.

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My anxieties are as filthy as the drain of my grievances and I can't believe I pamper them with anger that no one expects I have in secrecy. What I have written here were hideous parts of me I cannot draw. And curses I must not let out. These hands cannot even keep a dying brain. My shoulders sagged like a melted candle and lit a fire from my fingertips. And the unnerving pile of anger that fuels my body was as if the only life source I possess.

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Once I draw out, I will write a portrait of all my details that include those riddles that my letters imply. I must be colored in palettes of fear and other horrifying shades that no one would even stomach my sight. Maybe a touch of bronze would suit my locks. I say, it mimics a sense of misfortune and shame under the dim-lighted hue that my image will be traced black and my eyes cannot recognize it anymore.

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This is the shiver in my head that boils down to my every nerve, telling voices and mending panic like a wounded leg. If I'm seen this way, they had witnessed grave than the murder of my senses. I am not a metaphor for grief in a drowning sea. I will not be uncloaked like a sinner. I am not any of these horrible skins I'm trying to wear off. But I feel as though denial and hypocrisy have mended my deteriorating brain with another fraud. As if a mocking face for the next years because it is what makes up for my survival. I'm after all another mirror of a sham with those fears spelling out my name. My terror hides beneath a reflective glass that sees through me so clearly and if I am broken with revolt, everyone will see what horror I'm made of.

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@rks.wuhdrelis

_{A warrior of liberty. With ink stains on her mind and soul. Maayong adlaw! This page contains the information you might want to know about the author. She goes by the name Arques and is under the username @rks.wuhdrelis. She lives in Cebu, Philippines, and is a proud Bisaya. Arques is an 18-year-old girl, on a mission to her dream college and a writer wannabe is her reputation... Read more.}

_{Disclaimer: The prompt quoted at the topmost part of this blog is by far for inspirational purposes only. The author may have found an idea out of it and written a piece from this quote. Either way, the author's work is not directly connected to the original story where the excerpt came from.}

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