Hyperbole – Belle
I am weak. I’ve known this for a very long time.
My parents love me, I’m sure of it. My childhood was filled with vacation days and shopping trips and laughter. It was lovely in the moment, but not anymore. The bells ring to empty cathedral pews. The structured memories are there, but not the soul.
My parents are strong. They crawled to this country with mud-smeared hands (from playing in the dirt, not on those computers) and loose change jangling in their pockets. They’ve overcome more than I have ever gained, built an empire with wits and ambition and intelligence alone.
I am soft in comparison, wincing at too-loud schoolyard chatter and grades alike. Poking distastefully at the chub of my stomach, cringing at the feeling of my thighs brushing together when I lie on my side. I lie and cheat and weep for no good reason, infallible in my desire to be the best. No matter the consequences. I embody attraction and repulsion simultaneously, chasing and fleeing from others, whirling around my friends with affection and hatred alike.
How do I work with this? The shadow of my parents is long, yet. In the early morning of my lifespan, their affluence and talent and passion cover me from the warm, warm sun. A respite from the heat, a curse in the cold. I am stunted, ignorant of the outside world, and when others come into my grasp, they leave soon enough, sweltering in the heat of the sun with hateful glares leaking from their frostbitten cheeks.
I dream of grotesque things. Of hurting so badly that the world flinches back from my mangled hands. It does not help me at all, and yet I find myself wanting to tear a hole through my torso. To have my face atomized by some terrible monster. To have my friends and family look at me with pained eyes and offer me their love. An actor, standing upon a stage, tears himself apart and stitches himself back together. It is in that same way that I wish to act.
Life isn’t bad. I’m just dramatic. Teenagers and poetry-adjacent writing lead to far more melodrama than one will ever need. Rationally, I’m a normal person. I’m doing well in school, at the very least, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining my funeral when I feel alone. I imagine myself as a thing lost at sea, a tightrope walker about to plummet over the edge. At my funeral, the sky opens its mouth to pour. At my funeral, my grave floods and drags me to the cutting waves.
I have straight As. I cry over them anyway.
An actor, standing upon a stage, tears himself apart and stitches himself back together. The house lights turn on, and suddenly the actor is reminded of his folly. Absorbed in the pitiful, cowardly character, snapping back into his normal self when the stage is illuminated and exposes the set. Half-drilled plywood stairs. Sloppy paint drippings on the floor. His costume is nothing but foam and felt. A jester, almost. It is in this same way that I act.
But what’s it to you?
I’m just dramatic, after all.
Belle is a writer. Probably. They like doing it sometimes.
