On becoming a Water Lily

My identity and relationship with grief is always shaped by others' perception of it. Eventually my sense of self started to dissipate, as my head began to fill with words that were not my own. I know I’ve always struggled with these issues, however, I desperately wish to move on. Many do not acknowledge this large part of my identity, because admitting what I go through dirties their hands. I spent most of my time telling myself that I was making a big deal out of nothing. Whining about how cold the water is, when I should just be grateful to have it. Burning my soul with the heat of it. My life is perfect from an outside perception and I should feel joyful. But something deep inside the root of my being feels sick. I begin to hate the world around me, the people around me, the society that shapes my being. Hatred and disgust take over my days, as I sit and write in this foreign world. 

I’ve always loved the water. When I was a child, I would sit by the sand and let the waves beat me to the ground over and over again. Although the salt made me sick to my stomach, I would remain in the water. My mother always kept me from going out too far. And further in my life, she kept me from sinking completely. When I was in my shell, I would rot, but on the odd occasion I became visible to the outside world, I faked blooming. 

Present time, I feel as if I really am becoming a lily. I am nourished by the oxygen and the beauty around me. If I keep staring at the sky, can I ignore what’s down below? I’d rather live in a false reality that I am cured of this sickness, then admit to those that hardly care what I am truly - a whining, weakening weed.