I try too hard to be someone I can write about
to make art and beauty out of self-doubt
I try too far too much
to be poetic
to turn my pain into gain
complain of strain
for a piece of paper, signed with my name
and a bunch of words I cried out
I want to be one of the lucky ones
the ones who are kind
imperfect, but sharp-minded
the ones who make mistakes
but are so clearly good-intentioned
I want to be someone that can be read
that can be felt sorry for
I want people to look at me and decide I deserve better
I want to deserve better
I want to be better
But I am undeniably imperfect
incredibly pernickety with a short temper to match
I have set myself alight so many times
trying to feel something other than rage
but what better to add to the feeling than flames?
I had a dream last night that my house was on fire
and I barely escaped
had my grandfather carry me down
from my bedroom window
with the ladder we always forget to return
I sobbed in his arms as he hauled me down
and then I learned how to fly
soared through an open sky
completely in love with being alive
I don’t want my house to burn down
but I do wish that last part could come true
I wish I could be in love with life again
A child
holding daisies
the rawest form of love
sitting in my dad’s lap
learning how to whistle
I wish I could remember meeting my brother for the first time
he was born so prematurely you could hold him in the palm of your hand
he wore doll clothes and they were still hanging off his body
after the delivery, my mother had five minutes to meet him
before he was rushed off to a bigger hospital
She was presented with a choice
there was an air-ambulance on standby
ready to be sent out
but also a man in a river, drowning
she had to make the choice
the ambulance sent for her newborn, premature fetus of a son
or a man she did not know, in a river, suffocating
She sent it to the man
because we did not know then
if my brother could be saved
but the man already had a life
possibly a wife, children
he deserved to be alive
So my brother made the journey normally
and somehow still survived
I think we are repaid in ways we don’t understand
I think we are rewarded for being kind
the man survived too
she saw it days later, on the news
both of them, given the opportunity to continue their lives
I want to be someone I can write about
saving the lives of strangers
I wish I could write that the dream was significant
that it represents my life, crumbling into ash
that I deserve something more
that I deserve to fall in love with my life
I shatter, easily
disintegrate
it’s no wonder I couldn’t escape by myself
I am easy to hurt
I hold feelings in my hands
kiss them and love them
I don’t think I am hard to understand
But my hands
love to write
they simply cannot get enough
the high that comes from art
self-expression
I write poetry
for the exposure therapy
I dangle trauma in front of my own face
watch it sway
try to catch it
and always miss
but I think, perhaps it’s best I don’t hold it again
I will write about myself
until I understand
or until I get bored
until I decide I am actually average
there isn’t anything more to say
until I have healed from the pain
and can no longer use it to paint
I don’t know if it is normal to cope in this way
but I am learning
all I ask
is that you lay your hand on this page
and promise me you will stay.
12:13am – 30/12/23.