“Let the page flow out of you…
Don’t make it be perfect, just let it be true.”
I don’t think it’s that simple.
I am a teenager, born in the Florida Keys
I wasn’t raised there, but rather in Tennessee
But here’s what I’m wondering - what does that actually mean?
I could tell you my name or the color of my skin
I could tell you if I was raised in church or surrounded by sin
I could tell you all about my outside, but that shows you nothing in
You’ll know nothing of my sorrow
And nothing of my joy
Internally, I’ll look hollow
Because my true self isn’t something I think you’d enjoy
It’s not easy to know someone in a way that is true
Only I know me and only you know you
I guess if there’s more “I” than I
Then that’s for me to know - a rapid supply
Of "I" will leave my mind high and dry
Or maybe just with more than I started with
Well, I couldn’t tell you who my true self is
Well, I couldn’t tell you if I’m mine or his
How many “me”s will it take for that shattered mirror to be complete?
Well, either way, what it reflects will be sweet.
What color is this page on which I write?
Well, it’s the same as my outside - white.
But there’s blue lines, too, and red as well.
There’s more than just white, as anyone can tell.
And I guess I am too!
So shall I show the colors in my head to you?
There’s black and orange and pink and blue
I could say “me” or “us” and both would be true
Well, you can know me and I can know you
And all our struggles - whether a lot or just a few
Will grow and blossom into something beautiful and new
And even after everything me and my colors have been through
We’ll never give up on each other - yeah, that’s true!
So I guess I could be me
But I could also be he
Or I could be she
Whatever I am, I’ll always be a part of we
Yeah, this is my page
My page for poetry.
Editors Note: This poem was based off of "Theme for English B" by Langston Hughes. You'll see a bit of that inspiration reflected in here!
You breathe out and
cigarette smoke
swirls
in the air
stars twinkling through
the gray mist.
It is cold
and silent
out here on the slanted roof.
The rough shingles
dig into my flesh
as I cling to them
for fear of falling.
You pace casually along the precipice
cigarette in hand
and tell me for the hundredth time
that you will run away soon
and leave it all behind -
the cold silence
and the rough shingles
and the person who sits atop them
watching you lie to yourself
through smoke and gray stars.
In those moments when I'm not really me
I find myself in the clouds, drifting.
Far away from anything, anyone.
Sometimes
I wash up on the shore
of a cold, dark beach.
There is someone here
who I have known forever
and who is a complete stranger to me.
Tell me, Isabeau, have I been alone all along?
In those moments when they aren’t really themself
I don’t know how to reach them.
They withdraw so deep into their own mind
that I’m not even sure they know I’m here.
I am unwanted in this place.
They try to drive me out again and again.
They want their mind to be theirs and theirs alone.
Can I blame them?
But when they lose themself in the clouds…
Tell me, Eight, have you been alone all along?
In those moments when I’m not really me
I don’t wash up on the beach anymore.
I clutch the cold metal staff
feeling the grooves dig into my flesh
and I turn towards the shore, saline water lapping against my ankles.
The wings of a deity block my view of the beach that had become my home.
My head hurts.
“They went looking for gods,
and died in lonely places.”
Tell me, Calypso, have I been alone all along?
In those moments when they are not really themself
Why would I care?
If they want us to be no more than a figment of their imagination
then they can stay off of our beach.
You want to be alone, little girl?
Then you do not need Isabeau
and you do not need me.
If you want to tell me that you are real and I am not,
then keep away from us.
Tell me, Eight, have you been alone all along?
Editors Note: This was written when I was still in denail about being plural. Shockingly, telling your headmates that they aren't real isn't super great for your relationship with them! Luckily things are better now. Also! The quote in the third stanza is from the game "Night In The Woods."
You feel that you are drowning, sometimes.
Weight
bearing down on you
from every side.
Crushing your chest,
filling your lungs,
every stolen breath
desperate
and hard-won.
You’d spent years on your sinking boat,
cupping your hands,
desperate to keep out the rainwater and the sea.
Exhaustion has claimed you.
There is no point in trying anymore, it’s too late.
You’ve never left the ocean,
and you fear you’ll always carry it with you.
You’re water-damaged,
you’re no good.
They can see you flailing, you’re sure,
while everyone else floats easily together in their own boats,
and you can’t help but wonder
how useless you must seem to them.
Someone who can’t love like everyone else -
the way they write books and poetry and music and shape their lives in the pursuit and celebration of this thing that seems so foreign and incomprehensible to you, that everyone else sees as so enormous and joyous and life-changing and human and you
are an outsider.
It’s the voice of your parents,
smiling and confused
as they ask if you’ve met anyone,
if you’ve fallen in love yet,
isn’t that what kids your age do?
It’s the voice of friends who drift away
and fall out of your life slowly,
as friends become less important than partners,
until you aren’t important at all.
It’s your voice, as you again and again
think you’ve fallen for someone
only to find that you prefer them as a friend once you grow close.
It’s always your voice.
You should be able to do this.
You should be able to want this.
But no matter how much you love someone,
it’ll never be enough,
because you cannot love like they do,
and they
didn’t choose you anyway.
They will grow bored and distant,
walking and walking while you stand still.
They will fall in love and grow and change,
and you will always be you.
Just you.
You are trying to reach out,
and for now, there are people reaching back.
But they will leave you behind.
…Someone lets go.
You are drowning.
It terrifies you, the first time.
But then you open your eyes
and realize that maybe
it’s not that bad.
Maybe it’s alright.
The sea has always known your name.
You’ve always been a part of it.
Editors Note: This was written way back when I first figured out I was aroace. At the time, I felt really insecure about it. I've since come to feel a lot more secure and accepting of it, and I don't feel this way very often anymore. When feeling so alienated, it's important to take a look around you at your family and friends and acknowledge how far from being alone you truly are; how far you are from lacking people to confide in and love in the way that you know how. You're never truly alone.