My tangled blond hair whips around my face, not caring at this moment about the pain it will later cause me to untie the knots. I am truly alone as I have wished for in the night when ghosts inhabit my room. Yet this brings me little solace and I try for the millionth time to rid myself of the otherness. I want a love that does not tare at my clothes or my heart, friends that can see through me to the other side of my being, happiness that comes from the freedom to be open and honest. But the otherness anchors my feet and seals the lips that long to tell the tails that would release me.
The morning star matures, growing gold in the hours after dawn. It warms my face and numb fingers, but cannot reach inside. I stand and turn to leave, knowing that most certainly someone will be searching for the girl that used to me me. The otherness and I take our leave, knowing that in spite of what I might believe I want, neither of us can survive without the other. The unknown of my reflection without the otherness staring back at me is too much to fathom and my fleeting hopes for release melt into this reality.
Blame is no salve and time is not a healer. Perhaps we all roam the earth with our own otherness inside, eating us up until we surrender to six feet under. Maybe it drowns us in the nothing that we all eventually are bound to become.
It could be that one day, I will discover that I've never really been alone.
Author's Note: This is a glimpse into my heart as a teenager who was bent, broken, and bottled up by trauma and sadness. Thankfully, I am far past this. But it is good too look back at how far I've come and remember that I have not only survived, but thrived. The otherness is gone and has been replaced by the knowledge we are all survivors of something. We are all the same in so many ways and this brings me great comfort.