I wish I wasn’t an anxiety ridden introvert – I’d host a monthly salon, where all my favourite creative voices from the internet and beyond could have a meeting of minds. We’d change the world if we shed the doubt that mundane, relentless adulthood has a way of beating into us. The benefit of expanding your emotional and creative intelligence has become so underrated in a world of capitalism and rushing to work and scrolling through an endless sea of digital nonsense and never having time for anything because we’re all oh-so-busy competing to be the most productive – but what are we doing it all for?
I’ve gone way off subject – story of my life – that’s a question for another time. For now, please join my make-believe writer’s salon as I look at a poem that I recently saw and adored, by Glaswegian creative Mikala Monsoon.
The way I came across this poem is probably quite creepy, but WHATEVER K, I am a creep. As some of y’all may know, I recently went to Scotland. I happened to pass a hair salon called #Blow that looked super dope, so I checked them out on Instagram – I’d wanted Joker-esque hair colour for ages – and then I saw the exact colour I wanted on Mikala (I mean, LOOK AT IT GURL).
I checked out her Instagram and I was obsessed with her style – cool hair colours, blunts made out of rose petals (DAFUQ) and outfits to die for. I clicked onto her website, and that is when I came across a poem that I found myself reading over and over again. It was like it was written for me, for that exact moment in time, for everything I was going through, for all that I felt.
I was swept off my feet a few years back by someone who gave me all I ever wanted. They had such confidence, so I believed in them wholeheartedly. My saviour, after a lifetime of longing for something real. To be fair they promised me nothing, so it was my mistake when I told myself that I knew they were my future, my forever, what my life had been leading up to. I felt secure, I felt understood and so at home, for maybe the first time in my life. Eventually, it felt like my life depended on holding on to that feeling.
The rug was swept out from under my feet eventually; I couldn’t fit into the non-committal suit my spaceman gave me. But I couldn’t let go. So I tried to change, to rearrange the chemistry in my brain, to suppress every emotion that was bursting from my seams – but even as I tried to change, even as I DID change, it was never enough. Weeds of resentment began to grow out of the cracks as my self-esteem had plummeted. It wasn’t a good place to be in.
That he was a guest there
And when he tried to change you
He overstepped his welcome
And you will still be at home
Sometimes you just need a reminder that no matter how lost love can make you feel, you’ll find your way home in one piece – you always do.