She didn’t carry much because most of what she carried was inside of her. 

Her shoulders were never cloaked in velvet,

her neckline never dripped with jewels, 

yet people still knew that there was something spectacular about her. 

 

She tried to avoid becoming the center of attention, but she always was. 

She never drenched herself in perfume or entwined herself in thin sheets of gold, 

and that was why people were so drawn to her. 

When they looked into her hazy blue eyes and found that she knew herself better than anyone, 

they desperately wanted to become her. 

 

Her eyes told everything: 

The way her lashes fluttered slightly when she was listening to someone, 

the soft wrinkle that appeared when she allowed herself to laugh. 

But beneath the haze was a melancholy happiness possessing so rare a beauty,

it took people one look to become engrossed with her. 

Her quivering puddles of blue reflected her unusual yet sensual mind, 

revealing an intricate vulnerability that she struggled to accept. 

 

The first time she spoke to me, her eyes did much of the talking.

You see, I don’t like these people because they’re so frivolous. 

They cover themselves in real gold, and maybe it’s foolish, 

but sometimes I think it’s all so fake.

 

She told me her mama said it was polite to be social, and so she was. 

But you know, It can be tough when you’re swamped inside of yourself.

She gave me a soft, melancholy smile and a little wink that made me feel

as if I was someone she trusted with herself.

 

What I saw in her eyes, what I and everyone else worshipped about her,

was what pained her the most. 

Inside of her, she was playing with her favorite doll, 

her lost puppy was playing fetch,

her mama was making her hot chocolate. 

 

But simultaneously, volcanoes were bursting with her thoughts and feelings; 

her memories screamed when she attempted to drown them.

Every inkling of a feeling she was acquainted with since her childhood kept rolling through her mind, and some feelings would not allow themselves to be forgotten. 

She carried more than she could manage, 

and no matter how much she laughed or fluttered her golden lashes, 

she couldn’t escape the eternal abyss she had conceived within herself. 

 

And so I wrote. 

I wrote about her and I wrote about myself.

I worshipped her, worshipped her strength and wished the same for me.

I worshipped her struggles and how she pushed them to the dungeons of her mind,

worshipped the way people loved her because of her concealed flaws.

 

I wrote because I thought maybe by telling her story,

I could see myself in a better light.

My reasons for writing weren’t holy or heroic.

They were selfish. 

 

I realized I wasn’t writing about her as much as I was writing about myself. 

Her faults were mine.

Her pains, I shared.

Her thoughts echoed through my mind.

We were both falling into this abyss,

so I wrote not to help her escape it, but to help myself.

 

Because she was just a figment of myself

that I had conjured to romanticize my personal struggles.

 

And so I wrote. 

I wrote about myself through her, easing the pain of revealing my inner turmoil.

I ripped out my heart, and it was messy. 

I bled on the paper and threw all my feelings into the ink of my pen 

which still hasn’t run dry.

 

And I still write.

 

I write to escape my internal self.

I write to escape my abyss.

I write in hopes of carrying nothing but the weight of happiness and wholeness.

Nothing gold, nothing shining, 

just me,

at ease.

 

Finally.