Most days, I wear
my depression, my anxiety,
my PTSD, like Girl Scout badges
I proudly sewed on a sash
and wear on my uniform to Brownies.

Part of a girls' club for which
my member's card never came home from school
or the mail,
but the ceremony was held anyway.
Induction was never an option,
and the meetings are held every day.

Reciting the motto,
and finger painting it everywhere;
it's my identity more often
than it isn't.

There are others outside the club,
who say maybe those badges could be replaced,
one by one, with items that are
more worthy of what life becomes;
More worthy of topics of conversation, they will bring more joy;
More entertaining than ****, or abuse,
or why sadness lingers like strep in my throat
that cannot be cured with the strongest of antibiotics.

I just want to get a badge that says I learned how to skip today.
I blew bubbles and they flew and glimmered into the wind.
I played hopscotch and counted to ten while remembering to breathe
and reciting my favorite rhyme.

Cognitive distortions, and it's always been like this;
Water fountain eyes with no thirst-quenching,
bruises spreading out in hand-shaped marks around my neck,
whispering not to speak;
Mom says I'm just looking for attention, while wanting to shrink
with all the clothes that no longer fit;
Dad hits me when -

There I go again.

I'll dream in cotton candy color of a future that dissolves
honey sweet between my teeth:
Carefully I'll sew on badges saying I graduated,
held down a job,
and became something.