Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

She wasn’t like me.

She was sweet and kind, not a word that left her beautiful mouth was tainted with cruelty or malice. Any room in the world was a brighter and a more soothing room, so long as she took a step into it. Her bright smile, when it appeared, was brilliant and contagious.

Sometimes, when she got mad, her nose would scrunch up and little wrinkles would crinkle around it. Her face would go pink and her nostrils would flare like a child’s. Just as quickly as her anger would roll in, it would recede. Every foul word forgiven. Every sin, washed away by a gentle glance. My worries ebbed away with every kindness she could give.

She wasn’t like me.

I was bitter and cruel, I spoke of nothing but hatred for my existence as well as others. Lights dimmed and died out in my wake, and everything around me was cold and dark. I did not smile. For a long time, I wasn’t sure if I even knew how.

I was angry more often than she. I would yell and break things, burning up from the inside like a wildfire. I would rage out of control until…

She wasn’t like me.

She understood some things that I did not. And I knew things she couldn’t. She was the calm day before my violent, reckless storm. She was a brilliant artist, creating life between her pages. Every word was music to my eyes as I watched her stories grow, take shape… Every life within those pages was important to her. They were born in such different places, living different lives from one another. Each was so meticulously detailed, from every fiber of their being to their voices and thoughts. As different as they all were to me… Each one reminded me of her.

I wanted to be like her.

I took her story, looking at the gentle beings that lived their day to day lives within the pages. They were beautiful and serene, just as she was. I wanted to help. I wrote more of their story. As they grew, things started happening to them. Crazy things. Unimaginable tragedies and terror. Some survived, alive but not unscathed. I believed this made them more beautiful than they had been whole. Some lived rather ordinary lives, not noticing the depravity around them. Some going by on their own accord, avoiding the terror and wickedness I had created alongside them. Some, their lives had made them as bitter as I had become over the years. They took action and became the depravity and evil that the others fought against, or ignored.

Along the way and sometime after my maniacal decent into her story, I realized what I had done. Her beautiful work… the lives of the people within her pages, broken, dark and… no longer like her. I panicked. I tried desperately to give them happier stories, but it seemed that tragedy, heartbreak and misery was all I could muster. I could only create darkness among her land of the light. She would be so upset with me. If something like this had happened to me… well i…

She wasn’t like me.

When she saw what I had done to her story, she was not angry. The scribbling that I had created within her pages had no doubt ruined it… but she did not yell. She was as calm as she had ever been. I had ruined her life’s work, her people were dying, broken and sad. She only smiled and looked at me, writing more into the book.

”You must remember… when darkness comes… they need hope.”

She wrote more into her pages, but did not erase what I had written. They had been beaten, tortured, their hearts broken and their lives ruined… But with hope… They journeyed on within the story. They fought harder. They developed more than simple contentedness under her pen, they became something better, because now they had a reason to. My darkness. She seemed happy that I had created such catastrophe, perhaps because she could not create it herself, just as I could not create hope.

Now… we write the story together. There are millions of pages left… so many stories and people to write about. So many evils and treachery, sorrow, anger and malice. And now, standing in their way, goodness and loyalty, happiness, patience and benevolence to combat them. The story was not yet complete, but it was rich.

She wasn’t like me.

I think that’s why I loved her.