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Reoccurring Spring

Alexandra Lang is a 22 year old performer currently traveling the world, writing about her time around the universe.


I have called myself strong so much that the word has lost it’s meaning.

My delicate house of cards is strong enough to send your wind blowing back at you, instead of knocking me down.

My mind is strong enough to know that you do not get to tell me about my life as if you lived it.

My soul is strong enough to know that you do not get to tell other people about my life as if you have been around to watch it unfold.

You made the choice to leave, and I made the choice to keep living.

Sometimes the anger in my chest cuts it’s way through my throat, and escapes out of my mouth; I let it.

If my heart is too afraid to speak for itself, at least my enragement has found the courage.

I have yet to discover whether people fear me, or fear what I can do to them with pen and paper. What truths of them I can expose. How they will have to rearrange history itself just to put themselves onto the victim’s stand.

There are no victims in a love that didn’t work; only two people who have to learn what the phrase, “moving on” actually means.

In moving on, I have learned that I want my existence to reach further than my hands can.

But sometimes, my mouth releases sentences that it has been waiting to say without my mind’s permission.

Sometimes my legs shake to remind me why I allowed them to run from you in the first place.

Sometimes my worlds collide, and I have to form myself into a blank wall between them.

Sometimes my hair gets caught in the wind trying to pull me in the opposite direction from where I had originally planned on settling.

Sometimes my eyes have a way of seeing things they’re not supposed to.

You told me I could find a home in the palm of your hands, but my feet couldn’t seem to rest in the house you built us.

You stood in front of me years later in a jacket that I always imagined being inside of; to wrap myself in your choice of armor. To become it.

The only thing that made me feel more nostalgic than your jacket was your hands.

Back then, I had no idea the marks they would leave on me, and I still feel them lingering on my body every time I say your name.

Other men’s hands feel like burns against my skin, like a branding of their fingerprints.

Your hands felt like ice. You were my choice of December, and I was your reoccurring spring.

Dropping in to leave a little warmth, and a few petals of old memories.

A part of me misses the resentment in missing you. With resentment, there is still a splash of hope to be found.

There is no longer resentment, so there is no longer hope; only a road in front of me that moves forward, and never back.

My suitcase is packed, tickets in hand, and my feet have already begun to dance to a new lover’s music.

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