I do too much,
Away too often.
I do too little.
Chaos at home.
The laundry piles up,
The house in shambles.
The garden grows wild,
The grass too long.
Not enough.

I am too busy,
Restless nights.
Take my rest,
Feels like a sin.
Too busy with others,
I lose myself.
Choosing for me,
Leaves me filled with guilt.
Still not enough.

I care—
But maybe too much.
Pour out all my love,
Yet miss your rhythm.
I want to be there,
But I struggle with time.
Thought caring was my strength.
But I disappear while trying.
It’s just never enough.

Sometimes I’m [deadname]. She is Dominican mango. Perfectly sweet. She wears dresses and skirts, she is a princess. She is perfectionistic, soft-spoken, and proper, just as her mother is. She thinks that academics are the only thing that she can prove her worth with, but doesn’t let anyone know. She feeds off of the validation of others. She strives to be at the top of her class, anything less would make her a failure. She never stops until she succeeds, never giving up. She is smart. She is successful. She is perfect. She is my cursed present. She is [deadname].

Sometimes I’m [dead-nickname]. She is slightly unripe guava. She is bitter-sweet, delivering a punch of flavor. She is like the innocent child who has yet to learn the dreads of living. She is playful and loves doing her doll’s hair, braiding and brushing it, just as her mother does for her. She makes bracelets and handwritten cards as presents, writing all the little poems that flow through her mind like the wind flowing through the trees. She loves the swings at the park, flying high. She is like a bird that has yet to leave the nest. She is brave. She is playful. She is creative. She was my childhood. She is [dead-nickname].

Sometimes I’m Lumin. They are starfruit. Bold, sweet and sour, tangy and ****. They are bright, like the celestial wonder they were named after. They light up any room they walk into as their outspoken and unforgiving self. Their luster makes others stop and stare. They are like a warrior that would do anything to defend the people they love. A leader that leaves no soldier behind. They don’t let anyone tell them what to do. They are brave. They are confident. They are bright. They are my future. They are Lumin.

They all struggle to coexist in this world. They never get along, fighting like siblings. But they jumble up and create the mess of a person that I am. I wish that I could live by the name that is me, but walls of steel stop me from fulfilling it. So, for now, I’m [deadname], [dead-nickname], and Lumin.

They determine our strength with no brains
We get our brains with the lack of strength
To find balance in this life is unobtainable
Unless you are the propaganda itself

With tests, they see how smart we are
With miles, they see how far we run
Run, run away from it all
But you won't get anywhere

They reward us with worthless prizes
They drown us in our unfamiliar seas
They overwork us with all we know
Is the haunting propaganda outside?

Propaganda. Manipulates us all
To believe it is utterly flawless
Flawless, you must be flawless
Flaws show ugliness and mistakes

Mistakes? There are no mistakes
When you are talking about propaganda

they're spotless, no room for human flaws here.
with faultless sense of selves and fragile attributes
are silver stars, whose homes are cold glittered spotlights
pressured, battered and bruised. look away dear, they're "fine"

they're fine, scared and composed until the next plot twist
rarely, ever so rarely - a perfect one slips
a miscalculation on a regular day
phenomena, wasn't supposed to be that way

perfectionism drove them faultlessly insane
when the known consistent road, shatters to eggshells
"ever so rarely", they reason to the mirrors
with guilt mixing in the blood of walking in fear

inner madness unleashing, black swans reappearing
the wrongs, how cruel that it doesn't let them go on
"this is only once in a blue moon", they echo
deep breathes, clutching close, the past's panic they can't let go

It has been four years
and I have not written a better poem
than the best poem I have ever written,
stuck in a repetitive loop
of not good enough,
never exceeding
what I was once able to do
my fingers ache for another masterpiece
but my brain refuses to provide
any sort of solace that would come with
writing a good poem,
a great poem,
something that would make me proud again

I'm not selfish!
You haven't experienced the weight and woe
that accompany me with each tick of the clock;

I was--no;
I always disapproved of the things I've done,
I've regretted trusting with such nativity,
I always offered too much

I wanted to be accepted,
so I did what I thought I should do.
I tried changing myself,
I attempted to be like them, and
to somehow be similar.

It was of pure envy,
I wanted to be like them
Attractive, and having
countless friends

I wanted and needed;
And, instead of being envious,
I was greedy or maybe both;

I kept on suppressing my own emotions,
I push back the tears before they even form.
I would look unpleasant if I allow them to fall.

With an effort to perfect myself,
I desperately tried to improve with
the talent that I possess.
I was frustrated
each time it looked--so horrible.

Yet, blinded by my own perfectionism,
I overlooked the progress made.

"What a fool,"