just thoughts

to be the inanimate object that resembles your love

the smell of coffee brings back memories of you staying a little longer

what undiscovered treasures live right under our noses

x marked the spot where i met you

and your hand brushed against mine

time-there’s never enough

or maybe there’s too much

the ocean lives in your eyes

and not a day passes by that i don’t want to dive into you

and not a day goes by that i don’t drown in all that you are

cries of heartache were only described sounds until i met you

something like the scary stories you tell a child to keep them weary of monsters until those very same monsters rob them of their innocence

in a sense i knew you long before i met you

in other ways its like I never knew you at all

x marked the spot where i met you

i fear ex will mark the spot where we fall

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i can’t write for you

I came across a post on Facebook a couple of days ago and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It was posted by another writer and I remember reading it and immediately thinking, I wish more people would get this. 

The post was a quote and it read, “I wasn’t born to convince you to believe me. I choose to show up in this space for me and for the ones who find comfort in my art. I talk about the dark parts of my childhood because those stories are worth telling. It’s my way of giving a voice to my inner child. It is okay with me if my art doesn’t resonate with you. I didn’t create it for you.”

I think the reason those words are still with me is because I didn’t always think that way. As much as I agreed with these words, it forced me to think about the time in my life where I felt the complete opposite. 

Are my words good enough? 

Am I good enough?

This was a constant thought. I would hesitate to write anything in fear that my words and experiences wouldn’t be good enough for those who would actually take time and read it. It was exhausting quite honestly. I would analyze experiences that I went through trying to word in it ways that would satisfy OTHER PEOPLE.   Crazy right? 

I would become obsessed about who was reading my work, or if anybody was reading it all. I focused more on what others thought of my work instead of my actual work. 

It wasn’t just in my writing either. I sought approval and acceptance in just about every aspect of my life. I needed to be loved. Loved by anyone and in any way just as long as I wasn’t alone. My mother had died, and my father had chosen not to be a part of my life. Can you imagine for a second what it is like hearing adults as a young child who just lost her mother conversing back and forth on who would be able to take in two kids that are now motherless. It isn’t what I would describe as comforting, lets just say that. 

I grew up desperate for attention but was always too sad and ashamed to ask for it. It was a war I fought internally and alone. So I started to write. I wrote poems, I wrote stories, hell I wrote diary entries hoping an adult would go through it and find my cries for help. And when I didn’t get the response I thought I would, it sent me even deeper in the hole I dug for myself. It was a type of hell I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. 

If I’m being completely honest, it wasn’t until roughly two years ago that I truly saw how dependent I was on the approval and acceptance of others. I wanted to be loved so badly by others, I totally forgot about loving myself and knowing that loving myself can be enough. And I’m still a work in progress but it’s IN PROGRESS. 

I’ve come a long way. 

So when I saw that post it just made me think about how far I’ve come, and the roads I’ve traveled. Made me realize that I used to write to be right, and now I write because it’s simply what I love to do. I write for no one other than me. It’s how I express myself. It’s how I survive. To be able to write down and free the words and thoughts that have held me back for so long is a feeling I may never be able to describe but it is MY feeling. 

I guess what I am trying to say simply put is that I used to force myself to color inside the lines because I thought it’s what everyone would like. I thought a perfect picture is what would make me worthy. And now? Well now, my focus isn’t staying inside the lines. I draw what I want and how I want. Some people love my artwork, and others don’t. And while it’s okay for people not to like my art, just keep in mind, I no longer draw for anyone but myself. 

Isn’t it crazy what feelings can surface from things we see on social media?

death.

Death came knocking at my door again

No, not for me

But still it came, uninvited and unwanted

Unexpected

As it had come so many times before, I knew it’s knock

A knock you never expect until it is already pounding at your doorstep

Catapulting you into a reality that no matter how many times you’ve been before, still it takes your breath away

We are on a first name basis

No formalities

Candice, you know the drill

There I stand in NOT sadness, but pure hatred

You sick son of a bitch

When will it be my turn

Why do you insist I be in your audience only to witness your disgusting performance

The screams I am begging to stay buried leave no room for grief

I am angry

I am livid

Is this your idea of grief

Is this a part of your sick and twisted humor

All emotions but the one I need

Angry because I’m guilty

Guilt that my anger leaves no room to grieve

Lonely because I refuse to be consoled

And in this toxic circle there I sit

Bargaining with death

But he’s already gone

Just as quick as he came, he left even quicker

Leaving me with nothing but our memories and the future plans we made

He didn’t come for me but I feel him all the same

Once A Young Girl

Barbie dolls and hair bows

That’s what I dreamed it’d be

Instead innocence and security

Was ripped away from me

Young girl turned quick

Delicate skin forced thick

Hesitant to talk about it

No one else ever did

Shit like this shouldn’t happen to a kid

Where do I start

How do I begin

I trusted this guy

Because who wouldn’t trust a family friend

On my back I lay still

Hoping my silent screams

Reached the ears of anyone willing to listen

Because this can’t be right

This can’t be the way I learn about love

This can’t be how I learn about intimacy

His pants have come down

And now his penis is exposed

I am one step closer to intimacy issues

I am one step closer to never fully trusting a man

I am one step closer to the battered soul I’d soon claim to be mine

I am one step closer to depression that leaves me in the same position I was in when this all took place

On my back I lay still

Penetration came next

Is this considered sex

Am I supposed to be this scared

The sound of my suppressed tears must’ve been loud

Because I looked up and saw my mother standing there

The words “save me” fled from my closed lips

The ones on my face and in between my legs

She did her part

She showed up

Wiped her daughter front to back

But there was no conversation

Just hesitation, hugs, tears, her breast cancer, and then her death

The first of many bags I’d learn to carry alone

Barbie dolls and hair bows

That’s what I dreamed it’d be

Instead innocence and security

Was ripped away from me

Young girl turned quick

Delicate skin forced thick