1. I began to write at around the age of ten. The words flowed from me in the margins of textbooks and on scraps of paper lying on the kitchen table, next to the scribbled doodles of flowers and dogs. Throughout high school, I started and stopped four fiction novels, never quite finding an idea to which I could fully commit. I began to hone my craft at university, and that is when I discovered poetry as a medium.

2. Whatever I needed at the time, the words have been faithful friends in providing it. When I was young, they helped me craft elaborate worlds in which to lose myself. Now, they are helping me find myself by expressing my thoughts, my experiences. Writing has become my saving grace. It is the one place that I'm allowed to bleed, the one place I can face myself with brutal awareness.

3. It is my hope to publish a book of my poetry, so that my story might be heard, and others might find healing in the words, as I have.

I don’t want to be this person;

Jagged scales mar my once-smooth skin.

They slice the gentle hands

That try to embrace

As they did in times past.

The pain and confusion in their eyes haunt me

And I try to reach out to them,

To mend the wounds that I made,

But my scales only cut them more.

Darkness clouds my once clear vision,

Glinting onyx in the moonlight,

Cold and hard and unforgiving,

As I feel myself becoming now.

And so I must retreat,

Into the pit where none will follow

Where I am hollow,

But safe, and so are they.

You used to call me your Beatrice

you said you'd move Heaven and Earth

just to find me;

that I should be

the subject of every

painting in your museum.

But I should have known that

you were like Dante;

never wanting to know me

while I was alive,

and I should have known that

to put me on that pedestal,

first I would have to die.

We used to sing to each other

the most beautiful songs,'

but mine came straight from the heart

and yours was fake all along.

Now I'm a ghost of myself,

I'll never be what I was,

Because

You killed every part of me you loved

so you could hang it on your wall,

you slowly poisoned my mind

so you could become my all,

you put me up in Heaven

so I didn't know that

I was in Hell.

And I think that I know now

why you had to kill me;

because you just don't know how to love

anything that's living.

And I think that I know now

that she was never me,

so you can keep your Beatrice,

but you will never have me.

Writing down 5 things that I'm grateful for helps,

for a minute,

Getting a bullet journal to organize my day helps,

a little,

but when I tell you that I am exhausted,

that I am overwhelmed,

that every waking moment is a battle for me,

I don't need you to tell me how to fix it.

I know all the little tips and tricks,

all the self help strategies,

the affirmations, the breathing,

I've tried them.

I just needed you to listen,

to tell me that you hear me,

that you understand,

that you see me.

All I wanted was for you to see me.

The worst kinds of monsters

are the ones with human faces.

You reach out to shake their hand

and your body hesitates.

Something in the pit of your stomach,

in the hairs on your neck,

tells you that something is wrong.

but you can’t place what is is.

So you shake off the feeling,

Write it off as a draft or some bad tuna,

And take their hand.

But then you see their eyes.

You see their empty, emotionless eyes

That their smile doesn’t quite reach,

And the feeling gets more intense

Like a palpable aura clinging to them.

That feeling stays with you

Even as they walk away

And days, weeks, maybe years later

You find out why.

The worst kinds of monsters

are the ones with human faces,

Because you don’t know they’re monsters

Until it’s too late.

I can’t stand this silence.

Yell at me, scream at me

Tell me that you hate me

As much as I do.

I’m tired of you turning me into a monster

Some putrid, hulking thing with horns,

Just so you can cast yourself as the martyr.

Maybe it’s easier to fight what you can see,

But the demons that live inside of your head

Have nothing to do with me.

I’m fighting just to keep my head above water

Day by day I fight my own battles.

So go ahead; be a martyr;

But I have no interest in being your monster.

The words echo within

The jagged chambers of my mind

Those well-meaning words

Of the feelings I should find;

Anger, outrage, heartbreak.

I watch them flow

From the crevice of my mouth

False in their echo.

I hear them,

Loud but distant and dim

As if through water.

When did I forget how to swim?

If my words were true,

I would say that I am numb,

That I should feel something,

But my senses are deaf and dumb.

How I wish I could call out

As I watch you walk away,

But you cannot hear

What I cannot say.

I felt your approach before I saw you,

Just like a thunderstorm.

I could smell the rain, earthy and sharp;

Taste the lightning, metallic on my tongue.

My eyes opened wide and my lungs filled with your electric atmosphere.

Yes, even before I knew your name, I sensed the storm that you would bring,

But it made me feel so alive,

So alive that I didn’t even mind

The tears that fell onto my pillow

But every cloud can only give so many tears

Before she looks up and realizes

That all that she is has come crashing

Down to the ground.

With shears clasped in a steady hand

I fashioned my sapling into a shape

That suited my mind’s eye,

Until the bright, budding leaves

Were perfectly displayed.

I trimmed the roots to fit

In the finest terracotta

So all could admire

The whimsical branches

And the serene shape.

But, you see, the poor little sapling

Could not bear these brutal changes

So quick in succession,

And so the leaves turned brown,

and fell like tears onto the ground.