When people compliment me,
I feel a crisis of identity.
Was it I whom they were referring?
Or was it someone more fitting?
If I saw what they see,
Perhaps I wouldn’t be,
So self-deprecating,
Maybe…
If I saw what they see,
I could confidently,
Lower my walls and be me,
So much uncertainty.
I’m not one to accept compliments lightly,
I consistently convince myself that I’m not worthy,
Of their praise or their appreciation.
Cursed self-deprecation.
How could I accept such an honor,
When I look in the mirror,
And see,
Someone other than what they are praising?
If I saw what they see,
Perhaps I wouldn’t be,
Filled with anxiety,
About whether or not I’m being true to me.
And if I believed,
That I was what they see,
Maybe,
I’d feel happy…

You’ve spent a long time walking
down a darker lane,
spiraled out of control,
dragged yourself
into the wrong kind of fame.

Now you’re picking up the pieces,
learning they’ll only remember
who you used to be—
not who you are now,
not who you’re becoming.

There is no turning point
when they look the other way.
Still you hope that someday
someone will take you
with open arms.

’Cause there’s no greater harm
than being lonely,
being lost.
No greater harm
than being lonely,
being lost.

You’ve reached your breaking point,
almost given in.
But I want you to know:
your past does not define
who you are,
or what you’ve become.

You cannot let the sins of yesterday
swallow you whole.
Yesterday doesn’t define
who you’ve become today.

And today,
you are enough.

Fire, wind, water, earth—
perhaps I’ll be
    the element of surprise.

No scent of intentions;
I broke my nose, sent into
a world that watches with
  wide eyes.

Premature ideas delivered
to a man’s dream;
            the stillborn
still cries; echoing even
    after not seeing the light.

Often my heart feels low, unruly—
     recognizing no boundary,
******* the sacrifice required
  To be a man.

Sometimes I am a stone,
skipping past life · · · · · ·
    1, 2, 3, 4, 5...

But never six—
for by that count,
     I begin to sink.
Life and its lessons still needs
   to polish me, to reach my reach.

The *** never worries about its shine,
but only if the chef can stir more than heat.
Good looks can season the eyes, but flavor
fades quickly if the soul isn’t fed.

Jewels on the counter don’t make a meal—
the scars of the pan prove it’s lived through fire.
A recipe isn’t written in gold, but in burns,
in the scrapes, and in hands that keep cooking.

So dress the kitchen however you please,
but know this: the worth of what you serve
is weighed in the scars you carry, not the shine
you polish.

And now I ask—
which kind of *** are you?

Traceless,
paceless,
faceless.
Running away,
every day
I pray
to belong.
I feel so wrong
everywhere I go.
I never flow,
but get stuck.
I seem
to never find luck.

being sober feels like living in a shell
that doesn’t show who I am.

when I drink, I feel like a true human being,
like I am alive.

Suddenly, emotions flood me, and they feel real,
my heart beats in a rhythm beyond words.
It is an addictive warmth that spreads
in my body,

you could say it is like a disease,
but to me it feels like salvation.

love feels closest to my soul,
I feel like someone who belongs.
Not when I am sober.
sober, I am caged,
a cage I cannot escape.

a sickening guilt gnaws at me,
because I am my father’s daughter,
an alcoholic, not to his extent.
yet still I drink,
alone, without friends,
without sense.

I live in solitude, the only way it feels right.
the preacher at church
told me when I was eleven:
I wear my father’s sins like a veil,
as if I was born with it.

so maybe I don’t just look like him.
maybe I will become
what he regrets the most.

that question,
aimed at someone else,
split me open.

half of these are about you.
but half of them — it’s all me.
the one who isn’t pretty.
the one who isn’t well.

i thought i knew
what the book meant.
i only wanted to hold
something that was mine.
but it grew teeth,
and turned into
a launch party,
a press release,
my words living
in other people’s minds.

all this weight,
kept hidden,
only allowing
my closest friends
to get a glimpse
at the truth behind the veil,
turned into
a doorway i couldn’t close.

have you not read her poetry?

i don’t want to be
polished anymore.

so read it.
it’s all me.
the way it always
should have been.

To feel the hum of skin—
a rhythm under flesh,
bleeding ears of melodies
louder than memory.

Flaws fall, resting like
skipped notes on the floor
of silence. I said,
"I’m not a song, not a chorus,
not a chorus, nor the neat refrain
someone can replay.

Yet these songs in my ears—
they take me in, to teach me
how to belong.

I’m not a song, but maybe a lyric—
unfinished, still searching for the
right line. Perhaps in due time, to the
metronome of my heart.