dear instagram

dear instagram, my life is not copyrighted to anyone but me. this is my heart. this is my head. i get to choose what i share about it. my life is my life,  and i am free of what anyone else thinks about it. my moments are not something you can commercialize. my moments are not yours to demolish. this is my heart. and this is my life. and i’m trying, and right now i’m not doing too great, but… i’m trying. and i’m just tired of needing people who will never love me to love me. love me. just love me… and i’m tired of waiting. i’m tired of begging. i’m tired of being the one on my knees. the one who needs, and needs, and needs. the one who coats her personality in overcast days and false sun rays because then it’ll all seem normal, right? is this better? dear instagram, please stop making me feel like my writing has to be a certain way. like my mind has to be a certain way. like the way i see the world has to fit neatly inside a culture, stereotype or cliché. dear instagram, i am not doing this because i want to, i am doing this because i feel like i have to. i am doing this because i want people to notice me. i am doing this because i want a megaphone for my poetry and i’ll put up with it i guess. if i have to. dear instagram, my mind is fucked up enough as is. please stop, all right? just, please. stop. because life is complicated. more complicated than any picture can encompass. because i guess i’ve been in this place for a long, long time. the place where i am tucking the blankets in tighter and tighter, because i’m six years old. and in reality, there’s only bits of dust and some darkness, but in my head, there are monsters, tearing slowly through the mattress, and they’re trying to eat me, and they’re hungry… but in reality, nothing’s happening. and i bleed. and i try. and eventually, i end up cast out on the street corner, every single time. because when i was eleven, i remember thinking that all i wanted in a guy was someone who would love me back. remember thinking that was romantic. when that is not romantic. and i know who i am. it’s just… hard sometimes. to take a deep breath. close my eyes. open my eyes. and not just wince at the sight of it. because i want this to be about more than pretending. i want this to be the first healthy friendship i have ever had. i want this to be the start of a better kind of story. not the rosy kind. not the kind with rose-tinted glasses and smiley faces. not the kind of story that doesn’t know pain. the kind of story that cries on each other’s shoulders. the kind that gives you pep talks when you just want to bury yourself in blankets and stop being alive. the kind that lights up when it sees you and spins you around in circles until you’re about to colllapse. the kind that stays. the kind that loves. dear instagram, i don’t need you to tell me how to be who i am.


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