guilty & guileless
good intentions
When I was a little girl I was friends with a girl living at the end of the street. I still remember her so vividly. She had platinum blonde hair which was almost white and slim rectangular shaped glasses.
I had a specific toy instrument set, the drum was clear and inside was a fake microphone and tambourine, along with others I can not recall. I wore the strap around my neck and carried it to the girls house where we’d play outside.
The only thing wrong with this memory is that I was too young to walk away from my own yard without parental supervision and my mother claims this reoccurring event never happened. However, she’d see me outside having a conversation with what presumed to be myself.
Perhaps I had a vivid imagination, but even my parents claimed the house was haunted so I believed I was friends with a ghost.
If that is the truth, maybe kids do connect better to the spiritual realm.
Everything was so bright and fresh back then. I remember a blue house on the hill whenever we’d drive off our street. I sat in my car seat thinking that was my dream house. It was tiny, but it was beautiful and blue. Now, the house is gone.
When I was sixteen I fell in love and never got over it. They were the biggest blessing and curse of my entire life. Even now, there are pieces of them in everything I write even though it’s been years.
I still feel like I’m sixteen; too optimistic and unaware of the consequences. Even with the best intentions I still make a mess. In high school, one day I stopped showing up and as everyone was growing up into the world I fell behind into daydreams.
I realized this year that I had a secret power, one in which I could walk out of conversations and nobody would bat an eye.
Psychoanalysis
Because I’m autistic, I am a mirror. I only tell people what they want to hear and it’s not because I’m two sided. I genuinely do want the best for them, and I feel genuine excitement for them. It’s for so many reasons. Firstly, it could be because it’s the easy way out; I don’t have to make another worry out of my wants. Or perhaps, I perceive them deeper than they perceive me.
People believe things about me, everyone I’ve ever met has their presumptions and I allow them. Then suddenly I’m molded by the habit of our timing. I know who I am with them and who I am with another.
If you want me to beg, I will get on my knees. If you feel low, I will be up.
I as a person am multidimensional from body to soul. My brain has explored its shadows and corners yet still finds more.
And there will be some who will suggest it is normal. There are ones who claim to be the solo wolf, but they are the liar. They are too caught up in their pride to see more than their sword; to have time to ponder and see the whole board.
I write a lot about love, but I don’t know how to handle it. I grew up not knowing it as a commitment but something you say when you care about someone. And when I got to an age when men actually perceived me as an option, I fell hard and fast. I’d think about rings and carriages knowing things would somehow end. That somehow the default state would be boredom. I was prepared to mess up.
I never admitted out loud that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. In my head, I had good intentions with everyone and because of that I never took accountability for my wrong doings. I became a slut without ever having a proper relationship. Not because I didn’t care, but because I genuinely cared about all of them.
At the end of the day, I just wanted everyone to see my act of love.
Creative Exhibitionist
I heard this term before and coined it ever since. I hope when I’m dead all of my writing will be published and annotated. That people read in between the lines and write in the margins of my secrets. Read my journals and understand me.
This is my way of speaking, seen or unseen. This is my apology and my gratitude. There are words I do not say in my “I don’t know’s” and avoidance.
I will never apologize for my creations the way I apologize for my actions.
I’ve been told in my recent mess that chasing happiness is my downfall. Happiness is fleeting and so are my good intentions. Fulfillment comes from work and it’s always been a struggle for me.
My mother always tells me she can’t wait for me to “start my life” to the point where I refuse to believe it has already started.
I am blossoming, I just forget to add water to my own can.
In coming to terms with consequences I can not undo with pretty words, it is now me and per ora. Just like the way it started.
per sempre ora: not forever but for now
new post every friday
your doll,
bambolina ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚