[COMMENT FAVOURITE PERSON IN HISTORY FOR A TBH] 🌱🍒🕊
Each night before bed, there were fire drills instead of fairytales. My first words were spoken with a mouth full of ash. As I grew, I became a fire swallower by necessity, learned to push down the flames that licked at my throat like they were nothing more than swigs of morning coffee. I was born a girl with an ocean behind her ribs and a yearning to see, and to feel, and to love. I reached, double handed, out the window every night like I could pull in rain clouds, whispering prayers about an awakening, craving something to churn the waves within me. All that ever came was wind and thunder. I wrote songs with them. I drew maps to the sea on my homework, routes etched in pen on napkins that I kept tucked in my pillowcase. I spent a few years writing answers to myself in journal pages, only to cross them out and tear them all up. I searched for myself in mirrors and shop windows, but only found myself in books. Turns out I was the whole story. I was the beggar, the princess, the fool, the friend, the heroine. Mainly the fool. I was born with a form of sadness called creativity and an off-brand optimism. The school desks never felt right, the building was too small. I had too many thoughts and a tongue that wouldn’t speak them. My hands always trembled until I was holding a brush. I drew my path in sidewalk chalk. I built bridges out of their expectations and painted the flames in crimson and gold when I burned them down. I demand the same attention as a universe, each thought and memory and intricacy placed like stars in a pattern I cannot make you understand, because I do not understand it myself. All I know is I am saturated with feeling, with colour. All I know is that these scars and this pain and these moments and this joy, they look like brushstrokes to me. I won’t leave here with any blank spaces on my canvas. So if you want to know who I am, I will paint you a picture.
𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐚 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞, the one who daydreams the most and believes that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people.