“I wish I wrote the way I thought;
Obsessively,
Incessantly,
With maddening hunger.
I’d write to the point of suffocation.
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns,
Manuscripts spiraling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing.
And I’d write about you a lot more than I should.”
-Benedict Smith

But instead I write nothing
And hope that my thoughts are understood through my actions
Knowing the impossibility of it all
Because of the enigma that I was and continue to be
Desperate to fix myself when there is nothing broken
Grasping at pieces to make whole what was never shattered in the first place

I have created an illusion for myself to live with my trauma and try to label what makes me different
But I am slowly realizing that trauma does not define me
And my differences are what make me unique
What give me the power to view the world the way I do
What will enable me to change the broken world around me and finally allow myself a sense of peace

Some may say that I am selfish, to want to fix others but to never acknowledge my own flaws
This is not me saying I am perfect, but instead me finally giving myself closure from the wounds inflicted upon me by others... and by my self
No longer need I patch myself up and play the role designed by those trying to mold me into what they think I should be
No more do I daydream about the ways I could love you but never be loved in return
For the first time, I am free