I write poems in bursts of energy and hope and tears and anger.
Upset and repressed I try to find an equilibrium for us to exist on.
Absent is how to describe me the rest of the time.
Tired smiles and blurry frowns tell me not to try.
I am not alive.
I was told as a young child that I could be whatever I dreamed.
I did not dream of white wedding dresses or piles of kids as most young girls do.
When I was fourteen years old I thought that the stars were failing me.
Turns out I was failing them.
As a young child I dreamed of being the other.
I was not alive.
My restless mind begs me not to fall asleep, the demons will feed.
So I lay awake staring with glazed eyes.
I think about the day where I will no longer have to stare.
Most nights all I can do is remind myself that I’m here.
I will have to dig welts into the dark walls once again to keep myself safe.
I will be alive.
I’ll remind myself to breathe because the dark walls made me forget.
The flowers will no longer wilt in my unlocked prison.
Tear-stained floorboards and broken glass no longer have a hold on my reach.
November no longer has a hold on my ability to breathe.
I am finally alive.