Her name was Evangeline and more often than not,
she was alone.
Her name was Evangeline, and yes,
she may have been alone but she was rarely lonely.
But regardless of whether you are lonely or not,
being alone takes its toll.
For her, the depression was an odd sort of happiness.
She fell in love with the sadness
and the deepness that came with it
because melancholy had become her haven
and her mind the only respite.
So each morning she got up and put on her face.
Mascara, her optimism,
blush, her trust,
and lipstick, her honesty.
But in her mind, they stumbled,
all her sorrows and all her unforgivables.
They felt around the walls of her head,
looking for the glow at the end of the chasm but knowing,
she wanted to stay in the dark
with hands covering her eyes
as soon as she glimpsed a star.
And those hands were smaller than she thought,
younger than she thought,
more dependent than she thought.
She was indignant of this because
her independence had become her security blanket,
her happy place,
her warmth in the dead of winter.
And more than anything,
it was her dependency that frightened her.
Because to be dependent on anything, anyone,
meant that she was no longer in control,
that her emotions were not her own.
She was afraid of being wrong, and sometimes,
she was afraid of being right.
She was afraid of seeing eyes in the space between the windowsill and the blinds and
of getting hurt and crooked picture frames and different foods touching each other on her plate and of trusting people and getting too comfortable.
She was afraid of getting betrayed but really,
she was afraid that she would do the betraying.
More than anything, though,
she was scared of someone knowing her
better than she knew herself.
So she tried to keep a tidy soul
and all that she did,
all that she was,
And though her independence was everything to her,
she was just a little girl
tangled in the sheets after a nightmare,
unable to find her way towards the light switch.
And she needs to learn that in order to find the light,
all she needs to do is take the hand of the person walking right beside her that she has refused to acknowledge.
Easier said than done.
And she has had it said to her.
Over and over.
But her name was not Evangeline, not really,
and more often than not,
she was never alone.
And more often than not,
she was never lonely.
Because more often than not,
she was content.