Member-only story
I Killed Me to Save Me
I needed to die to live
I was living in this state of bliss I like to call Dream World. Except it wasn’t bliss at all. And it wasn’t a dream, either.
I was like a diamond, reflecting different flaws at varying angles — revealing my impurities only to those who peered into my life just right. Some saw the prism of my imperfections at full blast, as if the magnification of my life was distorted beyond recognition. Others saw the facets of my life not yet tainted by the heat of my insides fused into myself from the lingering past. And yet others held the power to judge me unfairly, having only looked at one surface of me rather than my entire fucked-up interior that held scars and cracks and bubbles and roadmaps that led to blackened roads and cloudy mistakes.
I projected my insecurities unto the thoughts of others, as they lost focus on who I was the longer I myself distanced reality from that to an alternative one — one in which I was happily passionate, passionately genuine, genuinely myself.
I couldn’t stand the heat (the heat I allowed to form my essence from birth and on) manifesting itself as fire, but not the fire that creates luster and zeal and vibrant colors; no, the fire that melts inspirations as reality fades into illusory facades of life itself. I was heating to the point of near explosion, as if a…
