She is not here to make you smile.
She does not exist for the sole purpose of making your life easier or making your pain feel less painful.
She does not wake each day to make you gasp or groan with pleasure.
And she sure as hell is not destined to hold your broken pieces politely together.
She is here to inhale her pain and exhale
Fire.
She is not a pretty plaything
Or a sweet little pet
She is a living, breathing, booming woman
With curiosity flowing through her veins like hot pink lightning,
With thorns on her skin
And colliding particles of electric, mystical mystery in her eyes.
She might look cute, she might look delicate and sweet
But she’s got a fierce beast inside her—
Her wild heart.
But that’s no secret.
Because she knows what she’s not—-
And she is not here to people please until she dies.
She is not here to say pretty, glittery things that make people happy, but have no truth, no meaty substance.
She is not here to hold the crushing weight of the world on her shoulders.
She is not here to hide the flames of her anger behind sweet, sugary, fake little smiles.
She is not the one who will save you.
She knows that she can’t save anyone, for she nearly lost herself while trying to mend the rips of a thousand broken hearts.
Now, she knows—
She is here to love herself, first.
She is here to inhale pain
And exhale
Fire.
She is not a pretty plaything
Or a sweet little pet.
She is a living, breathing, booming woman
Sent here with a mission, a purpose, a spark
That blooms inside her
When she stops trying to be perfect
When she stops trying to say all the right things
When she stops trying to please everyone else—
When she stops, lets out a delicious roarin’ scream and asks herself aloud—
What do I need?
A bright purple lily blooms in her chest,
It unfurls with decadence and sparkles proudly in the sun, it covers her skin with a silky coat of electric goosebumps.
And in that moment, all is revealed—a scroll of tattered truths that make her heart beat a little faster—
She is here to dive deep and she knows it.
She is here to be so honest that it hurts.
She is here to stand alone, completely alone, and taste dripping raspberry glazed sunsets and kiss dark stormy skies with her head tilted back in pure, ecstatic pleasure.
She is here to create works of raw, wild blooming beauty from the gaping cracks and smashed shards in her heart.
She is here to unearth grains of gritty truth from the stinging scabs on her soul.
She is here to love fiercely and unabashedly—without timidity, without fear, without pretending, without second-guessing.
She is here to rise above her piles of sh*t and learn to fly.
She is here.
This moment is hers—hers to catch like a tangerine speckled butterfly in the palm of her hands—
This moment is hers
Hers to kiss, to touch, to embrace, to devour, to make passionate love to.
And in this moment,
She is so vividly alive.
She is here to inhale pain
And exhale
Fire.
(Courtesy:http://www.elephantjournal.com/2016/01/she-is-not-poem/)
