Clover hearted

Would you always?

A miscellaneous chapter with both hopeful/joyful and depressing/fearful themes. Letters from April is quoted from diary entries. The title was chosen based off of "two weeks" by the band grizzly bear.
TW: addiction, suicide mention, CSA/SA

Undefined // Sam
"You don't have to get high anymore."
"Well, of course I don't."
"Sam, you don't have to get high anymore."
I feel the words sink into my tongue, I listen to these words like a melody on repeat, I wear them like a favorite jacket.
You don't have to get high anymore.
I roll onto the back and stare at the ceiling with this trilling revelation.
At sixteen this is what I needed to breathe, to stop feeling sad and sick and hollow.
And maybe I did need it, maybe I needed it so I didn't kill myself when I really meant it, but I don't need it, not anymore.
I don't have to give my life to this.
I can be a person, a real three dimensional person, I am not a headstone with a short distance between birth and death etched into it.
I don't know what I'll be but I don't have to be this.
This apartment has never known me stumbling, this lover has never asked me why my nose is dripping, this bed has never been drenched in sweat, this diary knows me without a high seeping into the pages.
It has not been lived yet but it will be.
The life I live can be undefined by the chase.

Letters from April
It's so nice to be free.
This is enjoyable to me although I used to hate it.
She loves me exactly how I am.
I will find my way in time.
I feel blank, not myself, or I become overwhelmed with primal fear.
I remember my past forts fondly, they are like a home.
This is the best day of my life.
I am listening to the sad music I listened to when I was sixteen.
My brain is healing.
I love weird people and I'm weird and I love that about myself, a lot.
I want to find my passion again and write some unhinged shit.
I told mom I am growing up at my own pace.
I think all the answers will come if I take what works and leave what doesn't.
I feel like I act so crazy.
I will be okay, I don't know how but I will be.
I'm not good with people.

Rewording and rewriting
I am proud of myself for being almost over it.
I wrote an endless number of poems about it, and in essence I wrote the story out of me.
It doesn't hurt like it used to, for the most part it doesn't hurt at all, and I never thought it was possible.
Still, these stories stain and color things. Are they allowed to? Well, they will regardless.
I hate when you, any you, touch me. The pat on the shoulder makes me want to crawl out of myself and hide under the floorboards.
I write stories about being held but I could not stomach skin touching skin.
Sex is unknown because I was there before I had the words for it. I didn't know what it was, I just knew I didn't like it.
I didn't want to. I still don't want to. Love me without your hands.
The disconnection is profound, I always found comfort in that. You can't touch me, even if you lay your hands on me.
And I can't pretend like it didn't happen and I won't pretend like it didn't matter.
Can I feel about it? I'm not asking for permission or forgiveness.
I was there and you weren't. I'm still angry at those who spoke as if that weren't true.
I'm allowed to feel about it. I am allowed to be profoundly affected by so vile and horrifying. You can tell me otherwise but I won't listen.
The rape lived in my home. The rape lived in my family. The rape was supposed to love me.

Two weeks
I arrive at the church with a sense of peace, I'm barely listening. I lay my head down and close my eyes. "Wake up sleeping head. How late did you stay up last night?" It's yellow and safe here.
I sleep on a pile of stuffed animals, surrounded by colorful fabric. I roll up into a little ball and suck my thumb. I am safe, peaceful, and small.
I wear rainbow bracelets and poorly done makeup. My lavender shoes have pink ribbon laces. The pants don't match the shirt which doesn't match the flannel. It's ugly and I adore it.
I enjoy nights in solitude, I listen to indie songs on repeat and tell stories through poems. I see poetry in the pages of dictionaries.
I look through reminders of my little dark age and I realize even in the loneliest evening there lived happy photographs.