Golden?

The golden child, but rust is all there is.

That weight hides in the shadows. Everything I do, everything I am, forever stained by expectations and fear of disappointment. Once you’ve disappointed yourself, what’s disappointing others worth… A lot.

I had strawberries in the fridge, they were sweet. So sweet I bought 2 more. They rotted. An attestation of my own rotting. Stuck at a line I drew. One I’ve crossed many times. Always unscathed. So I cross it more.

Be the perfection they want, while being anything but.

The taste of selfishness. I imagine it to be intensely sweet. The type you like in the moment, regret when the nausea hits. Drowned in thoughts of only myself. Inconsiderate, unaware. Unburdened by being my parent’s pride. Being someone’s trophy. Being praised feels good. Being the straight A’s student, the one who’s never been in trouble. The respectful, responsible one of the litter. I’m not filled with mold in their eyes.

How much of me was made, is it bad to be made. To be crafted, by gentle, caring hands. Whispers of encouragement laced in black. Pretty pink ribbons all around. Am I rotted in white like my mother, or black like my father.

A grey shade, I’ve never liked. But there’s a comfort in it. Permission to remain at the doorstep of good and bad. We’re all inherently bad, it comes naturally doesn’t it? Goodness wants effort it demands it. But eventually you run out. If only for a few minutes. If I’m good through others eyes, does it really make me good. Is the way I see myself true, or must I always search for myself in others. Am I good only because I’m manageable. Loved because I let myself fit the image that’s been curated. Molded over and over again. It goes in rounds, a ritual of sorts. An endless loop of thoughts, messy to the outsider looking in. A meticulous system to me.

Every time I feel like this, I think I shed. I come out brighter, happier. A better version of who I was before it. But I also feel robbed. Light always comes from burning something. But there are little things I lose. If I can’t point it out, is it for the better?

There’s so many things to say, so many to do, so much to be. Too much, in a way. It overwhelms me, all the thoughts and possibilities . To live, is overwhelming in a way that drowns me. Constantly drowning, I’m forgetting if I’ve ever known how to swim. Maybe I’ve just flapped my arms around and when it worked it worked, when it didn’t it didn’t. But sooner or later, the water will stop being so forgiving.

I’ll stop trying. Trying to live up to what was never meant for me. A blueprint I struggle to follow, when others have made skylines.

Gold doesn’t rust. I’m not golden.

I’ve rusted when the iron that shaped me continues to shine.