When I tell people about my childhood, they never understand.
They tell me that I look okay: That I look normal.
That I look like I wasn’t sexually abused
for the first six years of my life.
They expect me to be half a person—
a shell, a husk that never carried corn
High school grade point average of 3.4
Tried out for NBC’s The Voice three times
Ran a half marathon
Apparently that makes me remarkable.
I’m not a vegetable! Aren’t you proud?
What he did — did not break me.
I can talk! I can walk! And I don’t need batteries!
Perhaps life would be easier if I did.
Reach out for help—
Took so long to ask
Doctors tell me that if I’m so depressed, I should stop going to College
Beg for help—
No one will give it to me.
No one will give me relief.
Go to the ER
Tell them about my suicidal ideation.
That living is a constant struggle and I’m mentally exhausted from running on a treadmill set at 11.3
They give me two options: Wait or Stay
I’m so tired of waiting—
So I stay.
Attempt to find relief in something I was once so set against
But I’m tired. I’m constantly tired.
Gave me a white and green pill—
I took it gladly.