I was a girl who walked for hours.

I was a girl who explored the winding cobble-stoned streets of unfamiliar towns, listening to the musical lilt of an unknown language. I drank in the vast emptiness of winter beaches, washing stones in the freezing water to better see their beauty. I roamed the inner sanctum of ancient forests who sang and hummed their stories to me.

I wandered through my inner landscape wild and verdant; senses full with sights and scents of flowers and exotic fruits. I walked through many storms and though sometimes frightened, I felt my soul washed clean by the rain.

I was a girl who would sit reading, barely a glance to the world. A girl full of passion, needing to know. Needing to feel, to express. I was a girl who made beautiful soap. Painted. Wrote endlessly. Practised magick. Read tarot. Made music. I was a girl who danced, who laughed, who travelled alone and did whatever the fuck she wanted to do at all times.

I was a girl who felt more intensely than most. A raw nerve. I felt not only my own feelings, but those of others. Mostly, I felt their pain. I turned their pain into paintings.

I was a girl who fell in love with a narcissist.

And then, I was a girl who stayed indoors: pale features hunched over a screen, waiting for a response. A girl who listened to the hiss of lies instead of the songs of trees. A girl who saw only shades of grey.

I was a girl who hid way down in some godforsaken corner of herself, afraid of the light that had once burned so brightly within.

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art of trauma
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