Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on December 14, 2014.
I’m shooting for the stars to hit the moon
Mapping out a course for both my shoes,
I’ve already practiced acting like there’s nothing to it.
– Jellyrox, Rebel Tide
Some days I’m still lost.
Some days independence still knocks the breath out of me, and I’m reeling.
I’m split.
Over two years ago, I cracked, couldn’t live under the burdens anymore. And I left.
But I didn’t know how lonely I’d be, how long and cold winters could last outside in exile.
Try to hold the world together in my mind,
Try to make it snow in mid-July,
Try to prove my heart is worth the blood that’s pumping through it.
Some days I’m so cold. I warm my hands against favorite memories, hoping one day the frost will be over.
Looking for the light in the dark, the sunshine behind the shadow.
I try to keep my hopes above my doubts
Try to keep my thoughts above my mouth
I feel like a satellite just dying to leave my orbit…
I’m homesick. My friends noticed it reached unprecedented levels.
My friends have my back, my mentors believe in me. Somehow I’ll find the courage to keep walking, even if my steps are slow.
I take another shot at faking love
Miss it by a mile and then some
My insides are thirsty for whatever drink you’re pouring…
I’m tired all the time. The end of the year comes in like a tsunami, the semester drenches me. Maybe it’s senioritis, maybe the panic put a constant drain on my spirit.
I thought this biting wind would have moved on by now. Didn’t think the season would be so quiet a third time.
But they told me my freedom would have a price. Someday I’ll write about why.
And it takes you by surprise, like a rebel tide
Like lightning from the sky has been searching for you
And it splits you like a knife, the moment that it strikes
When you realize that death was looking for you.
I count the times I nearly died.
When the ether of death filled my nostrils, when I believed the only option was to slaughter my dreams, to bury them. Then reborn desires crowd around me, remind me of all the times I’d left them for dead.
Telling me my longings are real, blowing on my numb hands so I don’t freeze over.
Praying like a child Christmas Eve
Father, won’t you raise the son early?
I ask an awful lot of both my knees just waiting for you.
