i
am not a good person.
they say
i
am as sweet as the candy
i
give to their children; they say
i
am the angel that collects new wings
every time
i
smile, because you can hear it ring.
but
there are worlds behind these eyes
that they have never seen,
and you might think that beautiful
but darling, trust me when
i
say that it is not;
and
i
have never worn a sugar-coated halo
or looked in the mirror
and smiled because
i
like who
i
am.
i
am not a good person,
i
simply do good things for
wrong reasons.
i
write long birthday cards because
i
don’t want to be forgotten,
and
i
smile at strangers because
i
want to be noticed.
i
love giving gifts, but
when it comes to receiving
i
turn them into weapons if
i
have the courage to accept them
in the first place.
i
eat the things
i
am allergic to because it’s another way
to hurt myself, and
i
have skipped the food
i
should be eating because
that’s another way, too.
i
claim that
i
am strong, but
i
listen to loud music because
i
can’t stand it when my family fights,
and
i
only plant flowers
to have something to care for.
“i”
is written in a line all its own
because
i
have never thought that
i
needed anyone, or that
anyone needed me;
and
i
don’t use capitals because
i
don’t believe
i
am worthy.
it makes this poem
scattered
and muddled
and tiresome to finish.
it makes this story
disjointed
and broken
and difficult to read.
but then again
how fitting, because
so
am
i