Fight, or flight.
These two instincts drive humanity.
Fight, or flight.
Some people have the tendency to fight,
They are the ones who stick it out, who are there when you don’t want them to be.
They are the ones holding your hand when you’ve pushed everyone away.
They are the strong ones.
Some people have the tendency to fly.
They are labeled as flight risks.
We run away when there’s trouble, we overthink everything, we cannot trust our instincts.
We have been hurt by past trauma,
And this trauma has caused our walls to become impenetrable.
We run, because we are scared.
Do not let us run.
Fight for us.
We need help.
SD 2.5.18

8 months.
8 more months of being surrounded by familiarity.
Friends from kindergarten being only a car ride away.
8 more months with the sense of routine
8 more months spending 9 periods a day locked in a school.
8 more months having to prove yourself.
8 more months being surrounded by labels, given to you too young.
8 short months until the redefining process begins
8 short months until freedom.
247 short days.
SD 12.21.17 12:59

“You’re perfect”
The words rolled off of your tongue.
Like they were meant to be said.
At this exact place
This exact day.
This exact moment.
Between two breaths, you whisper those words to me.
Words that mean everything,
Words that change the way I see myself
Even if it’s just for a second, I see what you see.
Those two words
Those 12 letters, phrased together
Make my heart skip a beat, my insecurities forgotten for a second
Because a boy, this boy, thinks I’m perfect.
“You’re just saying that to get in my pants.”
I say, with a laugh,
Because why would he consider me perfect.

I know my truth.
My truth is as follows:
I am damaged goods.
I am a 17 year old girl with a past
A past which rules my life.
I cannot escape the past.
The events that have occurred have shaped me into someone.
Someone who isn’t good.
Someone who is so sad, or entirely numb.
Someone who can’t trust.
Someone who can’t commit to a person.
Someone whose soul is discolored.
Someone whose soul is scarred beyond belief.

I hate you.
I hate you.
I am lying.
I don’t know what I feel.
Is this fun?
Is this catastrophe waiting to happen?
Is this the end game?
As I watch you go,
I am wondering
What do you think?
I love you.

week one

The world starts.
It continues on and on.
But I am lost, in the midst of the chaos.
I am being shoved into corners, put between rocks and hard places,
The happiness. The sadness. The numb.
I am numb. I am lost. I am confused.
Who am I? What am I doing here?
Should I even bother?

week two

I shouldn’t be happy.
It’s too soon, too sudden.
My life should be in pieces.
But, I am watching those people
Laughing, smiling, taking pictures.
I am truly happy yet again.
They have made me happy, yet I should be sad.
I shouldn’t be happy,
Yet I’m happier than I’ve been
In a long while.
Thank you.

Dear self,
I found your old book.
The book of lines and ink that pulled you out from where you were.
Poetry saved you.
I re-read the poems you had marked.
And cried.
The poems you marked broke my heart.
Love, and deceit. Trust, and heartbreak.
You will know love. You will know trust. You will know happiness.
If I traveled back and told the girl reading those poems this,
She wouldn’t believe me.
She would’ve laughed.
Went to bed.
And died a little more inside.