Authenticity

A Story by Crystal's Meth

My heart grows like the flowers in my Mother’s garden at Springtime. It blossoms with cherished friends and close love. Its vines envelope beloved pets and good memories. The petals bloom in the sunlight of religion and inner peace.

My heart roars like the waves that ascend into the heavens, reaching higher, leaning towards the hands of God. And then it crashes, heavy, and with a force that can extinguish the fragile life beneath it. It heaves with power and tranquility, all at the same time, until the next moment it caresses Shore’s skin.

My heart is the art I have fallen in love with, the words I’ve fallen asleep to, the love I have contained. Its valves pulse with lands I have travelled to ; its veins clotted with the pain Life has brought me, too.

My heart is the crack in the window, where the smallest light can creep through to warm up a room. It is the lone bird in a cage, who forgot how to fly, but is still hopeful that one day it will be free. It sings because it loves to, it plucks at its feathers for sometimes, Rage beckons. Passersby have stopped to admire it, claimed they know it, understood it. They saw what I allowed them to see, they have loved only what I revealed. But my heart is raw and ugly and bruised. It is not loveable. It is dark and real, and afraid. It is my fears and unfulfilled dreams, it is the nightmares I never dared utter out loud. My heart is the girl inside that relished in solitude, but also needed to be loved. It is my furthest memory of a piece of writing, by an optimistic, 13-year-old me. It is the moments I have felt truly alive, truly beautiful, truly cherished.

My heart is the whisper that tells me to keep going. It’s the fire that consumes me, but also calms my storm.

Be still, dear heart, for you lie in the hands of someone greater. And you will always be okay.