This time,  
my poems aren’t about you,  
but about me.  

Tonight,  
I’m showing my scars,  
showing the pain,  
writing the words I can’t say aloud.  

The old me would’ve been on the floor,  
crying,  
begging God to take her away.  
I still do,  
and I don’t think that’ll ever stop.  

But the new me writes about it.  
Not fully  
but she’s trying to be real,  
at least with herself.  

Not with her friends though,  
she doesn’t want to lose them.  
So maybe I didn’t change after all,  
but I’m trying.  

But nothing really changes,  
except my age,  
and my friends.  
Everything around me changes for the better,  
while I stand here,  
frozen in time,  
unable to move.  

But maybe that’s for the better.