“I can’t perform that at the slam, my mom will be there”

“I can’t say that cause my dad will take it all out of context.”

“They’re just going to think I’m a disrespectful teenager.”

These thoughts haunt me as I put pen to paper-- I’m censoring myself.

Since when have I censored myself for the gathering masses?

Why do I have to change my words if they came to hear me speak.

If they don’t like what I have to say then don’t listen.

I’m telling the truth.

About what it’s like to be-

a human

a teenage girl

with depression and anxiety.

I’ve ripped open my chest and pulled a pen out of my heart to tell them how I cope.

How I’m just like them when they’re weak and sad.

How sometimes we really are all the same.

Sometimes its through writing, or talking.

Other times its through drinking, or smoking, or kissing too much.

But if they don’t like how I cope then maybe they've never seen tragedy.

Maybe they've never looked in the mirror and seen someone else. Someone who they don't recognize anymore.

No one can tell me I’m wrong because I’m not.

There is no right answer.

This is just the way I grow up.