18 years

We are expected to be full of ourselves.

We are expected to show the world only

What it wants:

Perfect People,




Like prisoners on a hunger strike

We are bound and forced to swallow

This toxic concept of happiness.

Emotionally taxing,

Physically draining,


We're forced to eat all of this up


And still we are left empty.

And still

We are left empty.

And still I am empty.


This poison they fed me

When I dared not eat

Is blackening my veins.

My eyes are bleeding.

My lungs are heaving for life.


And it was not my death to die.

And in these last breaths I search.

And in these last breaths I have to learn.

I have to learn how to be myself

Because after 18 years

I can't tell you who that is.

This poem is about: 


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