I would like to write a poem.
A torn up, black ink, ripped page kind of poem.
(I rip up the pages because
I do not know how to keep things that I am not proud of. I guess that’s why I keep trying to get rid of my self.)
I do not know how to be neutral.
I fill myself so full I wish I couldn’t feel anymore, or I run on an empty tank for days on end. I’ve read that these bad habits are like cocaine — they become compulsive.
I am becoming compulsive. I have always been compulsive.
I do not know how to be okay.
I either love deeply or I hate unconditionally. I do not love myself. Can you guess what that means?
I do not know how to live without wanting to die.
I’m still getting used to it.
I’m still afraid that the desire for nothing will come back. Is that why I’m always finding new secrets to keep?
I’m either nothing or everything.
I feel nothing or everything.
I do nothing or everything.
Most often nothing.
Things haven’t felt real since I stopped wanting to die.
I haven’t felt emotion since I last cried myself to sleep.
My whole life I was suicidal. Until I wasn’t.
Now I do not know what I am.
No one knows what I am.
No one talks about my identity like they talk about the others. I’m not queer enough, not welcome in their movement.
No one talks about my disorders like they talk about the others. I’m not sick enough, not welcome in their movement.
No one talks about my passion like they talk about the others. I’m not alive enough, not welcome in their movement.
I rejected their labels for a long time, but now I just wish I could have a definition. I wish there was space left in the dictionary for me.
Webster, won’t you call me when you get an opening?
Because if you could just tell me who I am, maybe I could finally stop looking. The searching is making me unsteady,
Somebody please teach me balance! Somebody please teach me control! Somebody please teach me how to love myself, how to feel alive, how to breathe without feeling suffocated!
I do not know how to walk without falling. I can’t even stand on solid ground without tripping. What am I doing in a sinking ship on the rolling waves? Won’t the tide carry me to shore? The blank ink is turning green and all I can think is,
‘Oh, how I wish this pen wrote in blue.’