I am from screens and bright machines
that show whole new worlds
that I use to pretend I’m
not living in this one.

I am made of the sharp smell
of artificial apples and cinnamon
burning your throat as you breathe it in
like secondhand smoke.

I am made of lonely days
spent on my phone
pretending to laugh when people say or send something
because I know they need the ego boost.

I am made of late nights
when I shut my phone off
and I start to cry
because I know that no one thinks about me after I go.

I am made of hours spent huddled
as my brother spits vitriol at my parents
and they take it with willing ears and become submissive dogs
with tails between their legs.

I am made of hellfire
carefully bottled up
until someone pushes me to the edge
and I am ready to **.

I am of thousands of cups of black coffee
sobbed over at three am
alone in my kitchen
hands searing, but refusing to let go.

I am from carefully counting every dollar
wondering when
I am allowed
to leave this town.

I am from four am walks
alone through the town
taking in the sights
and praying the sun will rise.

There’s a shattered hand mirror in my room.
Broken glass litters the cold dark marble
and teardrops drip all over the shards,
because even in all of these things that I am,

I am still not good enough for myself.