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I’ve forgotten myself recently

I’ve forgotten myself recently, I lost who I wanted to be. Or maybe I’ve never known who I am.

I know my weaknesses. I’m quiet, tired, soft, gentle, fragile, and an observer of those opposite of that. I yearn to find the confidence that lies in being outspoken, energetic, proud, and stable.

Maybe one day, I’ll find myself.

I woke up today

I woke up today hoping it’d be much better, but the war in my head brought me back down. The rain poured down and my heart started to ache. I picked up a pen and wrote until I cried myself to sleep.

My eyes grow weary of the salt that burn them every night, of the thoughts that are branded into the depths of my brain, of how unworthy I am of just being.

I dreamt of drifting away until I could no longer feel my feet, until my thoughts were filled with raindrops that cleaned away the ash.

I had hoped again, today would be different. and maybe tomorrow my hopes will come true.

I let it slide

I let it slide because I know you’re going through a lot. I let it slide because I assume you’re having a bad day. I let you say sorry without hesitation because I miss you on days when I get lonely. I let it slide because I’ve known you. You, who drops everything just to be by their side. I let it slide because it really wasn’t that serious. I let it slide and let myself cry in the shower sitting in the bathtub wishing I didn’t let it get to me. I let it slide and cried myself to sleep hoping tomorrow I’d get over it. And again and again I’ll let it slide, because I’m just the girl who’s expected to take it all in. time and time again.

I wish I was loved

I wish I was loved, unconditionally. through days when my energy sucks up a room with my blank eyes. through moments when I’m too scared to speak up for myself. through times when I want to speak my mind and instead keep quiet because I’m scared of being alone. through thoughts of wanting to run falling off a cliff when I can’t take it anymore. through my soft voice screaming to be heard when the winds push me off my feet.

I want to— love myself unconditionally. through days where i want to give up and yell at myself to do better, be better. I wish, I loved, unconditionally.

I miss you like

I miss you like the moon misses the waves of the shore, lingering to bring it closer to its halo.

But you miss me like a shooting star in the sky on the brightest night in the city.

I’ve missed you like a dwarf planet yearning to be pulled back in its sun’s orbit.

But you miss me like a summer breeze on the hottest day in July.

It’s not the same, and it may never be. It’s never enough, and I blame myself for it. I hate myself most for longing to be missed by you like winter’s first snowfall.

I wish I lit up the rooms I walked into,

I wish I lit up the rooms I walked into, but instead it feels as if I walk with a great cloud daunting over me. And every room instead fills with water, people feeling the weight of the cold on their ankles, feeling the crisp rain pouring on their skin, hair wet, & palms sweat with nerves. So they leave, because why stay near someone who makes a room so somber?

I have a soft voice, softer than petals falling in the wind. A voice that gets even dimmer when I feel like my last spark has been washed out by the rain, and silence reins in. I have a laugh that often gets called undesirable and unattractive. So I laugh quietly under my breath. I have big black eyes that stay puffy from the salty tears that hung them open the night prior. I have soft freckles under eye bags that are often forgotten, brown eyes and brown hair that are easily mistaken for any other softly green under-toned tanned girl. I have hair long enough to cover elbows that often get called terrifying by outsiders. I have bones that show through the seams of my dresses. I have wrists that often get measured by the fingertips of strangers.

I wish my voice was like thunder, striking a room like lightning. Unforgettable, strong, and beautiful. I wish my laugh was sweet like the summer, honest, acidic, tasteful, addicting and loud. I wish I had the courage to repeat myself when I haven’t been heard instead of shutting down. I wish I wouldn’t get mistaken for any other girl. I wish my eyes weren’t burnt from all the salt that they’ve cried. I wish my arms weren’t so tiny. I wish I stopped comparing myself to everyone.

But overall. I wish I was kinder to myself, and then maybe— just maybe, I’d be able to light up the room in which I’m the only one in it.

I write letters that never get written back.

I write letters that never get written back. I send love that is never received. I say thank you to those that don't appreciate it. I say things that don’t mean as much to the person they’re said to. I run when things get hard. I’m quiet when I feel out of place. I roll my eyes when I’m too scared to speak my truth. Maybe it’s time to burn those letters. Leave those rooms. Speak with my chest. Run into the fire and face everything head on. But here I stand. Quiet. Alone. In my own head as it’s always been.

Depression makes me feel like a dull knife, you know you can still use it but it’s still dull even after it’s sharpened. Try as much as you can, use as much force as you need but the knife will always be, dull. Maybe you’re too lazy to sharpen it thoroughly, maybe you’re too attached to let it go. So it sits there. In your drawer beside the newly sharpened knives, unused, useless, and there in memoriam.

“You should write a novel about your life”

“You should write a novel about your life”, something she’d often hear. Yeah sure, her life was— peculiar to say the least and I guess it’s a life worth the write but it definitely wasn’t something anyone actually wanted to hear. Especially on the precipice of their roaring twenties. Who has a life that bad before their twenties that it’s worth writing about? She didn’t wanna hear that, feel it, especially when she wanted to make something out of herself first. Or maybe too often it was the idea of having to make something out of herself that had burdened her. The struggle, it had to have been worth it of course if she.. made something out of herself. Right?

You turn 18 and you can vote, so you celebrate turning 18. You turn 19, okay no one actually celebrates that, you’re just 19. You turn 20 and damn you’re 20, you’re just a twenty-teen! You turn 21 and you celebrate being able to finally buy alcohol on your own and walk into bars like you’re the shit. You turn 22 and you celebrate .. what do you celebrate? Oh yeah, your Bachelor’s Degree. What about so on and so on? Is it twenty-teen until she’s thirty-teen? She’ll keep celebrating until it constantly feels like she's on the precipice of something great? And nothing actually ever fucking happens?

But she thought too, what happened to normalcy? The struggle to just be.. perfectly normal. Be alright. What about that? The movies had warped her idea that with struggle came greatness, but what if greatness was just— no longer being in that dark place and living a completely normal life? And with a sigh, she dropped her pen and began to wonder when she’d ever actually start writing.