Bandaid

I put on a bandaid,

knowing it won’t be enough

to stop the bleeding.

But I tell myself

it’s only temporary.

It just has to last long enough

for me to find something better.

Surely there’s some glaze somewhere

at the back of the cabinet,

just waiting for me to find it.

Except, I forget to keep looking

for something more durable

until I realize the bandaid is gone.

So I put on another one.

and another one.

and another one.

And now the box is empty.

What do I do now?

Is it Because?

Why aren’t I enough?

Is it because my elbows are too dry

or because my fingers are too short?

Is it the minor scar above my right eye

or because my acne rivals a high schooler?

Is because little toe is double-jointed?

or because my feet are as cracked as fresh brownies?

Is it because of the minor overbite

or that my lips chap no matter how often I reapply?

Is it that my belly button is an innie?

or that the rest of my belly is an outie?

Is it because I forgot to shave the back of my knees

or because I’m too insecure to get a wax?

Is it because I have the dreaded cankles

or because I dare to wear shorts in public?

Is it because I have stretch marks

or is it because my tan marks reflect my confidence that day?

Is it because my boobs might actually be too big

or because they get in the way when I hug?

Is It because I took the time to make al list

or because I’m still not good enough?

Busy, Downtown Street

I find myself standing

on a busy, downtown street.

As the crowd bustles on,

I can only shuffle my feet.

I feel so small

surrounded by the towers.

The everyday noise

my senses, it overpowers

I know I must do what I can

to make myself heard

even if I only have energy

for just one single word.

I take a deep breath

and gather my strength

to give it some volume

and meaningful length.

I scream it from

the top of my lungs,

loud enough to shake

nearby ladder rungs.

Only no one heard me

and my final cry’

for at the same exact moment

a large truck drove by.

I know it’s no ones fault,

the timing was poor;

but I have no ability

to try once more.

So I’m destined to be

yet another lost soul

Who’s cries for help

were mistaken for lull.

I find myself standing

on an busy downtown street.

As the crowd bustles on, ‘

I can only shuffle my feet.

The Worst Part

Sometimes the worst part about being depressed

isn’t not having the energy to get out of bed for two days

or realizing you haven’t eatten a real meal in 3

or resorting to bad habits and addictions

or considering unhealthy habits that will only hurt you

or finding a dozen more reasons to hate yourself.

Sometimes. it’s wanting to tell the person you trust most

and not being able to for fear of being ignored again.

Your Most Vulnerable

Insecurity lurks in the deepest part of you,

waiting until you are at your most vulnerable

before sinking its teeth into you.

For me, it’s when I get too comfortable;

blur the lines between my hopes and my reality.

I think If I repeat something enough,

it surely will become true with time.

That’s not always the case.

I try to love myself and make myself believe

That I am good enough and deserve to feel good

but that listen voice whispers in my ear,

when I’m at my peak; all alone:

“But actually you don’t.”

It’s poison keeps dripping, from sharp fangs.

The rolling rock gains momentum:

“You don’t deserve anything really.

You’re kidding yourself if you could ever believe

that you can ever be happy, find love, feel pleasure

because why on this earth would anyone ever choose you?”

Words can cut you worse than catching a falling blade.

You realize what you’ve done moments before

you feel the pain; see the blood.

Insecurities find ways to surprise you

and remind you that when you think you are at your strongest,

you’ve actually never been weaker.

 

What Are We?

I’m tired of the game

and trying to explain

just how you hurt me.

 

With all of your words

I’m split into thirds

thinking what are we?

 

Your power you flaunt;

don’t know what you want.

You keep changing your key.

 

You’re back and you’re forth

What is my worth?

Baby, what are we?

 

You’re up and You’re down

I’m flipped around;

a ship lost at sea.

 

You’re always my choice

but I’m losing my voice.

What about me?

 

Decide our plot.

Want this or not?

What are we?

What do I Want

As my undergraduate career comes to a close

in less than three weeks from today,

I’m finding that the amount of people that

are asking me what my plans are for

after I graduate is increasing substantially.

But the truth is that I really don’t have an answer

to satisfy their curious minds because

I truly don’t know what I am going to do.

Believe me: it’s more frustrating than you know.

I would love to have just one simple answer

to give upon request, but the thing is

that is so much harder to achieve than I thought.

There are so many options at my fingertips

that it is hard to pick just one to follow.

I tried on one, and decided I didn’t like it

and now I feel stuck once again.

As the world I know around me rushes to a close,

I find myself lost in the whirlwind with no direction

and it fills me with an anxiety I can’t describe.

People confront me and I don’t know what I want.

Well, I do.

It’s just not…

I don’t know: A possibility? Viable? Realistic?

It adds to my frustration even more.

I know when people ask me what’s next for me

they want information about my upcoming career,

but I guess the truth is that

that’s not what is important to me.

I have other matters of the heart and soul

to take care of first and until those are met

I can’t focus on anything else.

But my time is running out

and so is the money in my bank account.

I know I need to make a decision.

The pressure is on, but will I be a diamond?

Or will I just crumble?

Who Knows?

You don’t know what it feels like

To be left in the dark,

Left without the answers

You so desperately need.

Does he know?

Does he care?

Is he scared?

Who knows?

He’ll never say a word,

Leaving me here to wonder,

When will reality fall apart?

When will I have to face the truth,

That there’ll never be an Us?

Does he know and not say?

Does he not care to save my feelings?

Is he too scared to confront me?

Too many years between us

Would probably fall apart.

I mean nothing.

Forgotten in his glory.

All I’ll ever be is a memory.

You can’t know how that feels

To just be some girl

He won’t remember 5 months from now.