i don't know what i am anymore. i feel like a tool. a punching bag. a comforter. a fucking sex doll—
i wonder when i will ever feel human. if that is what i was even meant to be. i have only ever wanted to be a person and i have always been punished for it. for making my own decisions, for trying to speak, for wanting things—and i grew sick of it. i thought that i was being brave. refusing to let them keep me from my humanity. i thought i was taking it myself, rather than waiting for them to hand it to me.
instead: i have made reckless decisions with calamitous consequences. i have broken things. i have broken myself. i have left a cataclysm in my wake that only grows more disastrous the more i try to fix it. and now here i am, forced to face the fact that i don't know how to do it. how to want things. make decisions. speak. be a goddamn person. i only know how to be a tool. a punching bag. a comforter. some thing to use for your own self-satisfaction. and i don't think i'll ever be anything else.
YOU ARE READING
wilting roses
PoetryAnother collection of (bad) poems. *tw: mentions of sexual assault, drug use, drinking, suicidal ideation and self harm* -a collection of poems that document my experiences with my mental health throughout high school. a warning: i had a few undiagn...
