Drink In All The Colors

Dear Lost Gal,

The word “little” is such an ugly word.

In the context of life, it just shouldn’t be used.

Life is about experiences.

love

joy

pain

confusion

anger

and contentment.

Who’s to say those feelings or simply recognizing those essential feelings are small in Comparison to other things?

Every single day and every waking moment,

(whether noticeable, memorable, or forgettable),

takes part in shaping who you become.

Wouldn’t you say that calling your feelings and experiences “little” discredits the authenticity of One’s current emotions?

-Maybe not

Perhaps I feel this way because I secretly feel

Two parts happy and one part sad

or

Two parts dejected and three parts angry

All mixed up at once.

Yet no one really knows this because of the six letter word I pair with my deep conversations.

I start to speak of the things unknown to the outside world to a special confidant

But

I begin to feel those bittersweet ingredients start to stir up on the inside

Alerting me not to share too much

Though, hoping I’ll share just enough for someone to guess correctly on the menu I’ve displayed.

Out of fear of exposure,

Like a raw wound sensitive to the wind or a whisper,

I allow myself to flinch deeper inside and behind that six letter word.

- a little sad

- a little angry

- a little confused

- a little lonely

- a little heartbroken

- a little disappointed

It’s like a jumbled up bunch of cords

All within my chest and inner being.

I can’t decipher whether I truly feel a certain way

Or do I feel it “just a little”

Now I’m confused and I, too, can’t figure out the meticulous planning my barista went through to

Mix this intricate drink of deep r e d s and hot b l u e s.

She put a little too much thought

Into each word before she said it,

Into each action before she did it,

And into each ingredient

Before she mixed it all together

Called out my name

And quickly hid the recipe.

From,

The One Who Sees.

Dear Lost Gal,

The pillow hums sweet nothings softly into her sore ears.

In this moment,

__ I feel connected to her disconnection__

She’s developed an aversion towards Rejection.

Her thoughts echo in a deafening fashion,

“Who makes friends by being themselves, anyway”.

However,

being cheery, excited, and happy all the time is like Nora dancing the Tarantella:

Exhausting and all for show.

But ✩~morgan~✩ is good at dancing the Tarantella.

Perhaps if it weren’t for uɐƃɹoɯ embodying ✩~morgan~✩, we might not have any friends at all.

What should she do?

What should I do?

I hear her.

I see her.

I know her.

But I wonder who she is

when she speaks.

From,

The One Who Sees.

Dear Lost Gal,

The cool reds and hot blues are back

Fighting for a dance within her

As she paints a series of soft yellows upon her face that hides a burning Brown child who is screaming in anguish for water but no longer knows where to get it.

Alone, it’s simple and quiet.

Her eyes are closed.

Her heart is at peace.

Two plus two equals four.

With people, her heart flutters.

She’s in a panic that sneaks up behind her,

quietly and loudly.

However,

Like a Band-Aid that flaps frantically in the wind as it’s placed over a purple bruise,

She chooses to cover up her fear with ecstatic laughter.

“Hurt” and “Sorrow” are too cliche so she calls them Thing One and Thing Two

And she hides them on the shelf in plain sight.

But as time goes on,

They grow older

And They wish to leave their tower.

Till next time,

The One Who Sees~