The appetite of a people-pleaser cannot be appeased,

due to the want of satisfying everybody's needs

I want to be as happy people can be, and hide this lonely me

To take a quill,
And write a story,
Then find my real identity.

One second I'm fine,
and another I'm engulfed.
I'm falling back,
submerging in the pain.
It might be harder to breath but
it's familiarity gives me comfort.
I slowly swim my way back to the shore
but I stop as they utter,
"why are you in such a bad mood?"
"can you smile?"
and I think to myself,
the shore is not for me.
I would rather have the waves surround me,
numbing me from the pain.

I'm not sure if pain is the right word
Maybe guilt is more accurate
Whatever it is
It's doing a great job
At eating me alive

growing up has been holding eulogies
for the people that i used to be
maybe that’s why i’ve been wearing black
since i was bruise kneed and fourteen
when i look in the mirror i don’t
recognize the girl i see but when she
stares back there’s a sort of comfort,
in her hunger pain frame...
grown out of the cracks of the city
like a **** on the sidewalk—
surviving despite being stepped on.

when i was older i knew who i was,
bright eyed and bushy tailed,
bruising my lungs with the songs i’ve sung
in sacrifice for this body is a temple but it
is far from sacred and i am the god to
whom it is devoted.

it’s raining salt like sunday nights,
self doubt and sea water,
everything i could be escapes from my
mouth faster than i can breathe—
i woke up tired seven years ago
and i haven’t recovered since.  

i wear myself like my second best skin,
we are the mask and the wearer
and every me is me
the past is just as infinite as the future
but i’ve been holding eulogies since i was fourteen
and mourning is always harder on monday’s when everything is new but me.

— when i was older