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I am my own tragedy

The fight to claim myself again

By Mica Harrington GorePublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 1 min read
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I am my own tragedy
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

I am my very own tragedy.

I love so much and so deeply. My love reaches out and embraces those around me with the warmth of the sun and the gentleness of the moon. Worry has always been my blind spot though. See, my love embraces those I'm close to, but never myself. It's almost like my love isn't reaching, it's escaping because it has no home.

The home it was supposed to grow in doesn't have a door, the shingles are long flown away and the light fixtures aren't even worth trying. Instead, worry resides in the home. It squats there and waits until it can point out yet another potential threat to our already broken home. Instead of doing the work, of looking around at the damages and healing our home, we wait.

Worry and I wait together until one of us decides we've had enough. Spoiler alert, worry never has enough. Worry is scared, deprived of acceptance and a space for healing. The home is broken from years of trauma, causing us to rip down the wallpaper together as we remember why it broke in the first place. It was us and them all along.

We tore apart our home, picking at everything, searching desperately for the glimmering gift that would hold us together, despite what our poor role models and peers had to say. The things they did and said that set us up for unhealthy expectations and fear. Here we sit, together. Together we see we were the center of it all and we always have been, I'm still the light they claimed I was while simultaneously snuffing me out to make themselves seem brighter. No, not brighter, just bigger.

Worry encourages me to keep myself small for the sake of making room for the shadows of the past, people who thought it would be in my best interest to stay small and quiet. Love encourages me to heal and make room for beautiful things and peace but worry keeps it away. Worry is scared of love because it knows not of its intentions, worry thinks love is going to trick us into a false sense of security. Love only wants space and to watch us grow into something we never thought we could.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Mica Harrington Gore

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