Who am I?

Who am I?”

A question asked by others
To get to know each other more.

Instead, I ask this to myself 
Every night.

“Who am I?”

Oftenly asked by many.

Anyone would want to know. 
It’s quick to ask a question.
But it’s a lot more serious than it seems

I lay there in the corner of my room
Where my bed has been placed
And I ponder…

“Who am I?”

Well,
There are different
Ways to answer this questions.

You are what others 
see you as.

Or is it
Maybe what you want
Them you to see you as.
I’ve asked other people that seem to
Know me.

“Who do you think I am?”

“Who do you see me as?”

“Who am I?”

I get multiple answers. All
Of them sounding quite…

Similar.

“You’re my friend”

“You’re cool.”

“You're smart”

“Talented”

“Beautiful”

“More than average”

Of course, I take the compliments,
But why do I feel as
if they’re not telling me the truth?
Why don’t I except what the speak into existence?

At the end of the day, I 
Go back home to take a shower
And cry, just so I can 
Sleep through the night.

Getting my body prepared for the
Mental battle of tomorrow, I lay in my
The bed without any clothing. Only a blanket
Is covering me from exposure.

“Who am I?”

“Is it me or someone else? Who else could
It is? Nobody else can control me
Nor the way I feel. Who am I trying to be?
Nobody I hope.

I am my own role model
And only I know the truth!
Nobody knows me!

Hell!

Nobody ever did know who the 
fuck I was because…

I don’t even know.”

The question looks more
And more threatening and
Vigilant than ever. The pain
No longer stays in bed,

Nor in the shower,

Not at home even.

It stalks me everywhere I go and
Turns up any damn time it pleases.
It hurts my head the more it bonds me.

“Who am I?”

Another throbbing headache so strong
It makes my heart skip a beat.
So strong it makes me puke.

Or is that just my finger in the 
back of my throat looking for results.

I’m trying to solve the equation.
What? Another solution?
Maybe.

It’ll work, for the time being, but
What if somebody finds out?

Love?

If only someone can prove my value.
If somebody really did admire me, they’d
Be with me forever.
They’d fuck me and say…

“I love you.”

Nothing ever stays hidden for too long.
But at least he still loved me 
For three years and counting.
Hopefully.

Longer and longer
More and more
The question is pounding at 
The door with a couple of friends.

“Who am I?”
“What am I useful for?”
“Why am I even here?”
“Do you even need to be alive?”

“What is my purpose?”

Eventually, they welcome themselves in.

Great. Now more question 
I need a dumb answer for.
I eventually asked for some help.

Therapy.
A professional. Finally
The help in need. Maybe I’ll
Get a reasonable answer.

It didn’t last too long anyway.

I got something out of it tho.
“Anytime you feel frustrated.
Write it down. Nobody has to read it.
Nobody needs to know. It’s yours to keep.”

It’s mine to keep.
It was mined to keep all this time!
This pen and this paper isn’t
Doing anything at all!

All it is is just extra room
For my brain to fill in more

Damn

QUESTIONS!

So here I am. Haven’t asked for
Physical human help in months
Because “God will answer your prayers.”
When he feels like it.

Well, guess what?! You’re running
Out of time and I’m losing more
Than just patients!

I’M LOSING MY MIND!

The writing then turns vague dark drawings.
The drawing then turns to a knife.

It’s working. Something else is
Overpowering that damn question.
I’m piercing my skin deeper and 
Harder than the pain piercing my brain.

I see brown,
Then red,
Then black.
Cutting so deep till I fell asleep.

It’s the only that’s really sustaining me.
Well, it is just a substitute since…

They left me.
No.
Since he took them.
Away from me.

First my grandpa of cancer
Then my uncle Big Red from a stroke
My great-grandmother of “natural causes”
And another uncle, Paul of…

You guessed it! CANCER!

He’s taken them from me 
the most painful way possible when
They were my rock.
My main support.

Grandpa was my humor
Grandma was my teacher
Big red was my therapist
And Uncle Paul my very first LGBT partner

I knew who I was then.
Stable.
Sensible.
Reasonable.
“Who am I?”

“I don’t know.”
Someone once told me…

“People die because God just saw
A flower in his beautiful garden and
Decided to bring it inside his home.”

They would have been fine here.
Shit! I would have been fine if they were here!
All because you thought that these flowers
Were SO pretty!

How selfish.
You didn’t even need the decor anyways.
I don’t know who I am now because of you!

No, wait.
I know who I am. I’m a
African American Lesbian Girl
Nobody takes seriously anymore!

I’m anxious,
Tired,
Hurting,
Hiding…

Scared.

I’m scared of my next move.
I’m scared of my next question.
“Who am I?” turns to
“What next?”

The sex didn’t help.
Starving myself failed.
The help I had is out of reach.
Big Daddy in the sky is unavailable.

And the knife feels duller the
More I began to use. 

I’m scared I will look
At so rope.

I’m scared I will look 
At some bleach.

I’m scared I will look
At a 100 yard drop.
Turning into 6 feet underground.
But I won’t be there to see that.

I’m scared of never getting my
Question answered. 
I’m scared of not passing a test
Or even a resume online
That’s actually lying 
Underneath my chest asking me…

“Who am I?”

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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