A guest post by an astonishing writer _tutuadedoyin
Some people think that to be strong is to never feel pain. In reality, the strongest people are the ones who feel it, understand it and accept it- anonymous.
Yesterday, I went to bed with echoes of my cries to God ringing in my ears, begging him to take my soul. Before yesterday, I had had to struggle with coming to terms with the death of my sanity. I had killed it in the name of love. I thought it would make me extremely happy to have someone who had finally taken the time to understand me, study my scars and come to love how well they have flawed my soul. This boy who ripped out my heart mercilessly and fixed it back in since the time I impaled my white flag on his sand, wasn’t always a surgeon. The first time I saw him, I had on hurricane and my hair was a fly’s lifespan coloured like a bee. I was headed towards the gate like a tornado towards its preys. His eyes were as lovely as the sun setting on a golden evening and his hair was as dark as a black out. His smile became the one to calm the hysterical rebel that was my heart. There, I knew I was willing to exchange myself for what he was willing to offer. By giving him all, I gave up my liveliness and happiness. I sold my being in exchange for what I thought he could offer, but I kept my sanity dearly.
With every surgery performed on my heart, my sanity gave in little by little. He became the type of boy to make a girl call pink, peach. Enough about the one who was the reason for the bizarre cry to God. So yesterday, as my words echoed in my ears, I wiped my tears and headed to the mirror. I realized that after every heart break, I became immune to a lot of things that would have shattered me into a million pieces. I realized I was beautiful and I didn’t need him to be my mirror. He made me notice my flaws to the extent that I hated what made me beautiful. He so much magnified them with the word perfect till I felt inadequate. I realised that the phase I was could be likened to labor, quite painful, but the end result is always very lovely. I realized I couldn’t get any weaker and that I have only learnt to look at things differently. I called myself beauty-full, for even though I was broken, shattered all around, I was a beautiful mess like different colours of paint splashed on a white canvas. I loved every little detail of my scars. It was surprising that there are scars in places people cannot see. I embraced the hurt as though it was mine to nurse till death and all my chained demons freed themselves. I felt peace run through my veins to my heart and for the last time, I wept to mourn his departure. I sniffled and cleaned my nose which was now as red as one of Santa’s reindeer’s’ nose. I stared at myself one more time, with a clearer view as though the tears have washed the tears have washed the scales off my pupils. I smiled at myself reassuringly, knowing I had just passed a phase. I drifted off to sleep, taking the residual with me.