Running from who I was

I am…

I am a poem.

Sentences you throw together when you stop and think.

Words that flow together on paper with ink.

Each letter perfectly imperfect.

Each word furiously thrown down in love or anger.

Kind of like when I’m running and I’m not sure if it’s the pain of the past that keeps me going or the passion of the now that keeps me pumping my legs to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

I am the rhythm of the drum in a song, my heartbeat mimicking every time you touch my face.

Like that time we lay under the tree on some blankets.

 The ground was still damp from the dew drops that met the blades like a kiss that is eternal.

But we didn’t care how cold we were, or how damp the blankets got.

The stars shimmered in his eyes. And in that moment I knew that there was a God.

I know you could hear my heartbeat then.

I am a powerful warrioress.

With my pen as my spear and my mind as my shield I could defeat any enemy.

Almost like that time in 5th grade when Brenda thought that a child with a mental illness was funny.

With my spear I wrote her a letter about what ADHD was and asked if it was still funny.

It’s like when I can’t escape my own mind and a spear is all I have.

So sometimes I would write on my arms, so that I could wear who I was on my sleeves.

And I would stand in the shower just to watch who I was run down the drain in a black foam residue.

Just to try to find out who I was again the next day.

I am the inhale on an autumn’s eve.

When the air is crisp enough to make the hairs on my arms stand stiff.

The crunch of the leaves is how I feel every time he gets in his silver Honda and drives away.

I hate the way it takes so little time for me to fall and how long it takes to pick myself up again.

Falling in love was a lie in the movies.

There are no princes on white horses or vampires who have waited for me their entire life.

That’s why they call it falling. But instead they should call it stumbling or running.

For me, I didn’t fall in love with him, I merely found the piece that put the pieces of my broken heart back together.

I am a broken lamp.

My pieces are jagged and broken. I was not brand new.

My previous owner left me in the dump to die.

But he came by and saw that I had a light. So he put me together, and because of that my light shines brighter than a million suns.

I am a poem.

I am. 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741