I am from

[joyful]

This is a poem that I wrote after i found out about my SO's addiction. It's pretty cliche and melodramatic... but it was a way to express my hurt and sadness and pain.

I am from fairy tales.
From handsome princes and happily ever afters.
From love at first sight and knights in shining armor.

I grew up in that place.
I spent my life there, but not anymore.
I live hundreds of miles away from that place now.

I live in a reality where handsome princes are in short supply.
Where "happily ever after" is a cute dream for little girls who are too innocent to believe in any alternative.
Where I am now, there are no princes that look like frogs;
Only frogs disguised as princes.

It is a cold place, a sharp one.
It is a nightmare, but yet it is safe.
My ideals and expectations, my hopes and dreams
Are locked away.

The shattered fragments of those dreams have been swept into a little box, placed high on a shelf.
Sometimes I wish I could get it down and show it to girls who haven't yet realized
That they live in this place too.
Or they will, sooner or later.
My box of splinters and shards is proof.

You can still see the light in those remains.
When I am strong enough to look at them, the light reflecting off of them
Hurts my eyes.
When I am strong enough to look at them,
I want to glue them back together.

But I'm afraid.
Afraid I'll do a sloppy job,
That some of the pieces have been lost,
That it won't be as good as the original.
It can never be truly whole again.

But then I wonder if it was ever whole in the first place,
If it was so fragile
And collapsed under the pressure.

Someday, I hope to recreate those dreams.
It will take time, I know, to sort through the fragments.
To find out where each sliver goes
And carefully put them back in their places.

It will be painful.
Some of the edges are sharp and cut my fingers,
Making them bleed.
Someday, I'll do it.
I have to.
I can't abandon my world of once upon a times and happily ever afters.
That is where I am from.
When I'm ready, I'll dust off the box and set to work.

It's a daunting thought: rebuilding one's reality.
Is it easier to start over, throw the pieces away?
Once those pieces, those un-shattered dreams
Meant so much.
They can wait for me, up on that shelf.
For now they are safe.

I am gentle with them.
They are delicate.
Labeled "handle with care"
Just like me.

[Eyessoblue]

I felt like I could really relate to this, I also write a lot of poetry, when I read back over them it makes me realise in what a low lonely desperate place I'm in, sometimes it just feels like the pen writes for me then I read it back and realise just where I am with everything and how I 'really' feel without having to pretend that everything's ok.