by Maya Gerrits ’25
Winner- Best Creative Writing
The difference between those who don’t, and those who leave are not much of the same.
My own opinions affect my thoughts, leaving a trail of broken dreams behind me. But it’s ok, I was never the same as my mother, she knew that and I was fought because of it. Her gracefulness never came to me the way it did my sister. Passion can only find those who are looking for it, and I wasn’t looking for her.
She didn’t really leave I guess.
But there was no more peaceful love, only a war between our minds and our hearts. Those who leave, and those who don’t remind me of the same. Both are cowards, yet neither of them has reasons to leave those who tried to love them so hard behind.
I didn’t inherit my mother’s face, only my father’s so I was the spitting image of someone she wanted me to be. I didn’t inherit anything from her. I just began to treat people the way she destroyed me first because you can’t get hurt if the only thing keeping you from yourself is hope. I wasn’t given the thing I needed most, love. Not a Romeo Juliet story, more like support.
The only thing keeping those who are left is often their drawings made of blood and bone, crafted for only them to see, never leaving you as they did.