alina delamere {d10} fin

I stand alone. Alone is a dry corner with streaky tears rolling down my cheeks. I think of all the places I've wandered and I feel the guilt and shame I can't hide. My mind mulls over the thought of: "Why did this happen?" But honestly, I have to admit to myself that I don't know. I don't know who I am and I don't know what I've done. I hope that I'm more than the choices I've made and they don't define me. I'm worth more than my mistakes in the past, all the dilemmas I've never found a solution for.

I try to believe the words I repeat a thousand times on a cold school night, but I can't shake away the feelings. I know the answers; I'm intelligent. I always have been. That's why it's so hard. My intelligence and mental capacity does not let me forget the lines etched into the backside of my brain. I need my brain washed. But I don't know if I'll be able to do better afterwards. It's written all over my head in a dark, poignant permanent marker. Upon closing my eyes, the words reflect back and I see visual imagery of the pain and damage.

The storm is the worst. Tearing me down, breaking me, picking away at my outward appearance, which I care so much for. I find comfort in hiding behind my sandy hair. Feeling invisible is what I want. I don't want people to see me - my chiseled, hollow and skinny face isn't anything to show off. My hazel eyes aren't anything special. I just want to be 'another girl'. Someone who blends in. The rain does no good. Neither the hail, snow or wind.

This isn't about what's been done for me, it's about what I've done. And, it's not about all the paths I've traveled just to make the journey back. It's not about what I took, it's what she gave. The way she gave me forgiveness and it's the way she made me feel loved. I'm worth more than my mistakes in the past, yet I can't forget the jealousy I felt when she was so small and precious. To think they'd be paying less attention to me and so much more to her, hurt me. It was like digging nails into a blackboard and scratching them across it, slowly.

I'm not anything more or less than jealousy. It's my obvious downfall. I was always in the spotlight. My parents, boasting me to their friends about the perfect child I was. But the snow came in and swept it away so elegantly. I was left with a blank piece of paper with a pencil in my hand, ready to start again. The word 'jealousy' wrote itself out without my consent onto the paper, over and over, for miles and miles. I hope I'm more than the choices I've made in the past, I hope they don't define me.

But as I grew, some of the clouds drifted slowly below me. My head, was above them. I could see clearer. No obstacles to obscure my view. It was like a gift from the heavens, lifting me to new heights which were completely fresh and ready to explore. It was only a few centimetres. I'd find myself wearing sloppy clothes, comforting me, wrapping losely around my slim and weak figure. Frail and delicate is how I'm often described. Like an icicle, easy to break and crush. The softness of the clothes I wear is like the touch of a warm hand heated by a cosy fireplace with a red brick surround. I speak of growing, yet my body stays the same height. 5ft 1" - exactly. Nothing more, not an inch less. I must be the anomaly of my family.

The respect I have for the circle around me is unbreakable. I'm glass, but they are the metal. The iron, the steel and the lead. My pillars and my support. Throughout it all, they'd be there. Even my actions against them couldn't stop them from opening their loving arms and accepting me warmly. But my family isn't the only thing I can't get off my mind. My imagination is replaying the memories. They peer through the secure bars I've managed to put up in my time dealing with myself. I can hear it and I can still hear it though. It'll never go. I hope I'm more than the choices that I've made.

And I walk to and from school, back and forth from my front door to my bedroom. It's always there. I try to reassure myself that I'm more than the sum of my past mistakes and that one day the record will come off repeat. I wear a smile of innocence on my face day after day so that people don't get misconceptions of my dull face. I feel my heart drumming against my tightening rib-cage. One day I'll rewrite my life. One day I'll have that opportunity. One day I'll be remade.