I’m weird,
for dreaming in broad daylight,
for speaking in riddles,
and letting my silence speak louder than words.
I’m weird,
because my thoughts spill out in silence,
hovering on my lips like secrets,
and when I speak,
the world looks away,
as if the truth in my voice
is something they’re not ready to hear.
I’m weird,
for finding beauty in broken things—
the fragments others throw away,
and in the bruises I hide beneath my skin.
They whisper stories,
reminding me of the pieces I hold together in myself,
stories (that) only I seem to understand.
I’m weird,
because I laugh when I want to cry,
and cry when no one else does—
my tears fall for the stars,
and my heart breaks for the moon.
I feel too much,
love too fiercely,
as if my soul was made
for a world too fragile to last.
I’m weird,
for I don’t fit in the spaces they give me,
so I carve my own,
even if it means standing
on the edge, alone.
But if weird is what I am,
then let it be,
for I’d rather be this beautiful ache,
this painful bloom of something true,
than fold myself small enough
to fit into a world
that never made room
and never will.
I’m weird,
and maybe that’s the best thing I’ll ever be—
not perfect, not easy to understand,
but real, raw,
and unashamed
of every odd, jagged piece
that makes me whole.
