this is me

this is me. and if you don’t like it, i will not be remaking myself in your image because i’ve been there. and i’ve done that. and honestly, fuck you. this is what i was meant to be. 

this is me. and i am not a toy. i am not yours to torment. i’ve wasted enough of my life being someone else’s puppet.

this is me. and i’m not your disney princess. i’m not your token dramatic teen with mental illness.

this is me, and yeah. sometimes, i have two anxiety attacks in one school day. or i close the bathroom door and fight the urge to fade away. and i fall apart. and i make so many mistakes.

but where were you, when i made tapestries out of my broken pieces? when i somehow found the strength to pull myself out of this darkness?  this is every part of me that refused to be silenced. 

this is me. this is writing at 1a.m., or sobbing uncontrollably.  this is the stubborn determination to do it anyway

this is hope. despite the inferno on my hands, and the freezing cold. this is the first beam of sunlight, warming my skin after all these years alone. and maybe, maybe, maybe this is what it feels like to finally come home.


This poem is based off the song “This is Me” from the movie The Greatest Showman, a song that’s been really influential to me in the past couple months. I don’t know if it’s good or not, but honestly I just needed to write it and share it with the world. 

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today

today the sun rose, and the sun fell. i didn’t ask you sure how one pocket of time can feel so tiny and yet so massive, and maybe it’s all about perspective. today, it’s hard to write this without it feeling like i’m pushing my way up through sticky honey and the fog of closed curtains broken flash drives and half-asleep panic attacks, but i’m trying. today, i decided i would try and drown my feelings. only then i decided to fold them; try to find symmetry out of the chaos and make sense out of everything and it didn’t really work, but i did write poetry. and today, i wasn’t the person i want to be. because i’m never the person i want to be. today, i think my fingers shook on the keyboard with the quiet electric shock of my anxiety. today, i think maybe you’re not who i think you are and that scares me. and it’s all lies and empty faces. and these words do i mean it is this really my voice do i really mean it what am i saying what role am i trying to fill again what is this? what is this? and will you still love me in the morning? and was i good enough to be worth your time? maybe i’m not good enough. i spread my arms out like the page of a book and i turn myself into your story. and why am i not enough to be your everything? and today i try to wrap my arms around myself until the words stifle my mouth. i curl up into a corner and my heart is one massive explosion of charcoal and screaming and my eyes which are always kind of closing. the stars are shaking above me. and i want to be ok but i’m not but i’m trying. i’m trying. i’m trying. i hope that means something.


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it is time to read books that are not about dying

i don’t know what i’m doing. it’s 11p.m. and i’m up late writing for the seventh time this week waiting for my eyelids to slam closed like my head is really just a prison. because i’m nothing to you at this time of night and i guess that’s what appeals to me more than anything. i don’t know what i’m doing and is that all right? i don’t know how to do this. i’m long past this deadline but i don’t know what i’m supposed to write to make the world seem brighter because the words assemble soldiers on  my tongue and then evaporate the second i reach for them. it’s time to read books that are not about dying, but i don’t know how to be someone beyond my mind because no matter how hard i try to pull and stretch my memory like silly putty, i can’t remember a time when it was simple. and happy. i don’t know how to get over you because the honest truth is, i’ve never gotten over anybody. it is time to read books that are not about dying because god, it’s getting sickening. because this isn’t something i’m choosing. no. choosing is when you know what your options are. choosing is being presented with a menu in your fluent language and told to order. but… every menu in my mind keeps flashing on off on off on off neon lights overloaded hard drive what i’m trying to say is, i don’t know what it means to be ok. i don’t know what it means to completely trust somebody. i don’t know what it means to be held in your arms without the slightest tinge of fear you’ll slip away. and on the good days i am flying i am flying i am flying i am so much more than all right. but on the bad days, i barely feel like a human being anyway. it is time to read books that are not about dying, but i’m watching you walk in slow motion and i don’t understand half the words you’re saying and i guess this is how i’ve gotten pretty good at vague responses and lip reading. i’m six years old inside and maybe i always will be, but i guess there are worst things to be. fingers attacking skin slowly pulling myself like a rag doll apart from the seams again. mental breakdown on the couch because i have to take a picture of myself but i don’t want to see. i don’t want to see. i spend the whole afternoon taking pictures anyway, trying not to scream at the idea of being seen crumpled like a paper airplane on the driveway. i don’t want to see. and sometimes, the bravest thing i do all day is look anyway.


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and maybe i have a chance

trigger warning: mention of suicidal thoughts and self-harm, but in the context of no longer wanting them

at around 7:59 when the air smells like flowers and i’m all alone and it’s still light i like to think about it like she tells me to, with that voice like my life is a map i’ve only just started to unwind, and i don’t know when exactly it happens but i imagine myself like a flower, curled up so tight into a ball because i was so scared of being blinded by the sun and the idea of coming out made my heart pound, but someday i’ll come out. and i like to think that someday it’ll be beautiful. and i like to think she’s right. and i’ll be all right. and i’m worth people’s time and it’s ok to be soft even though my whole childhood was spent hurting myself on purpose and when i look in the mirror every muscle in my body curls in like a scared turtle and the stains of the things that have been said are making my skin look purple and i don’t think you understand that the little words are grenades sending fissures through me making so hazy and i want to sleep so fucking badly but i’m scared the darkness will consume me and i’m scared of what my brain does when i pinch myself again so tired so tired so tired i push myself over the edge again and no wait i’m trying to hold myself rather than jumping but sometimes my skin on my skin makes my skin start crawling and no wait i’m trying to hold on and i’m trying and i’m trying and i’m trying so hard and i’m standing in the middle of the sky and it’s all emptied out and the sunset is it just me it looks so much like it’s bleeding red and it looks so much like it’s dying on the inside but i could be wrong and my life is the music playing at a party and i’m trying to dance. but i’ve actually never been to a party, so mostly i’m just mouthing the words to this song trying to calm the hot-glue burn of the things i shouldn’t have said. and i’m trying to accept my past self as anything more than a scar lashed across my skin. and i’m going to do this. i’m broken wire remoulding myself. i’m lines of code that keep spitting out answers and some of them are wrong. some of them are wrong. some of them are wrong. and as the sunset traces its way over the horizon, i think i’m learning how to do this. i think tomorrow might actually exist, and maybe i’m not going to die, and maybe my thoughts can be quantified and maybe you’ll understand and maybe i’m not going to die. and maybe i can figure this out. and maybe i have a chance.


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rag doll

trigger warning: insecurity, exhaustion, swearing, use of “chemical gunshots” as a metaphor, suicidal thoughts

i mould paper flowers out of the long lists of things i feel for you, and i carve my poetry to nothing because that’s what i’m supposed to do. and i’m hoping i’m good enough for you. and i’m so tired it feels like my eyes are made of lead and my skull is collapsing mostly because i’m scared of you leaving. as i fall asleep i think maybe we are all stars, and planets, band-aids and patched up messes. you could say that i’m not really thinking clearly. you could say it’s all a scattered mess of fallen leaves and broken heartstrings and it’s never going to get better and i might even believe you because i can’t imagine my life stretching out longer than it already has and for some reason that idea makes my nauseous and it’s all such a mess and it’s all so large and writing about being happy is really goddamn hard. and it’s all spinning. and it could just be midnight but i think everything is relative, as in everything is dependent, and if everything is dependent how do i know what the truth is? and how can i do anything knowing my future self will hate me for it just because in hindsight all the awkward lines and inevitable mistakes and things i shouldn’t have said highlight themselves over and over again. neon red. my vision is blurring and the headache presses in and i’m trying to care so i shove myself off cliffs like as long as the wind is rushing through my hair nothing will ever be complicated again. i’m shattered glass on windowsills. i’m dressing myself up in business suits and prom dresses printing out credit cards so i can buy my way into the future and it doesn’t matter if i go into debt because my brain can’t even process the present yet but did i tell you that of late did i’m soft blankets and the crickets at midnight and oceans of tears and the words expecto patronum and the gilded frames of finished poems. and i’m lying awake late at night, and it’s just i’m having trouble getting this through my brain. because i’m still only half-sure how to use my broken heart as a band-aid.


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