He left. I couldn’t help. He left me. 

Again.

But did he?

The anxiety.

The pain.

The fear.

The nightmares.

The ones where the lights flicker,

When I see his body, bleed out.

Where I see his face, wet with tears.

Where I see his limp body.

Where I see the blade next to him, covered in red. 

I remember.

I remember the text exchanges.

I remember the blade going in further.

I remember all of it.

Only it never happened

 

Thing #3

Who are you?

I am a child, not a daughter.

I am a sibling, not a sister.

A they, not a she.

I am NOT a girl.

I am a person, not a threat to society. 

I am a broken china doll, cracked,

Worth so much but just thrown into a closet, 

a box, while I am expected to stay there,

Silent,

Like the ones before me who fell and forgot to get back up.

Like the ones who didn’t speak in fear of bleeding out like the ones on the street,

Like the ones who were forced into hiding away in fear of being taken from their lives,

Their identities are gone.

Like the ones who changed themselves to have a foundation strong enough to hold the weight of the lies.

Like the ones who slowly bleed every night.

Like the ones who try to stop the hurt and cut their woes away.

Like the ones.

And still, the question presses,

Who are you?

I am someone who doesn’t feel like I am enough,

Like someone who is giving their all but not giving enough,

Like they are the villain in their skin,

Like I am a lost soul, drifting from mind to mind, trying to find the right fit,

The right body,

The right mind.

But who are you?

I am a sibling, a child.

A they, a human. 

I am a friend.

A gay person, a trans one, a non-binary,

I am valid no matter who I love and what pronoun suits my fancy.

I am a person who can be devastated and depressed but who can still find joy.

I am a person who doesn’t have to carry the weight of all the bad things and people that have hurt me. 

I can drop that weight and still be valid as a person

Who are you?

Myself.