17 / A Journal of Sorts / 10.6.14

I thought I was done;

done with stinging eyes and tear-damp pillowcases.

Done with voiceless crying in the shower.

Done with sniffling for hours after. 

But then… I turned 17

At first, I was fine,

But then the little ones went away. 

At first, I was fine, 

But then I messed up. 

And then I messed up again.

I finally realize how much I mess up.

I am my fingers when they stumble on piano keys. 

I am my voice when I say the wrong word.

I am my eyes, as they stay up until early morning yet beg for rest.

I am, myself as I mess up every single morning.


I am mixed messages.

Jumbled and twisted and never quite clear. 

I’m a broken record,

A repeat offender.

I always make the same mistakes twice.

I’m crazy and inadequate;

I’m never quite enough. 

I’m like Chinese food an hour after it’s eaten. 

In my head, I’m dependable

In my head, I’m intellectual.

But then, if you tap on the glass…

those thoughts scurry away.

I want to be enough.

I want to be what you think I can be.

I want, in the least, to be adequate. 

But, I’m about as great as adequacy as I am with math…

I’m horrible at math.

I want to be me, 

I don’t want to be the cliches tied to my name.

I don’t want to be my name

I want to be perfect, 

and as organized as a shelving store. 

I want to be as useful as a swiss knife. 

I want to be kind.
I want to wear my heart on my shoulder and not worry about falling down sideways.

I want to be good at math, and living in the morning. 

But most of all… I want to please everyone. 


I want to do everything, for everyone, all the time.

I want to be everything, for everyone, all the time. 

And I don’t want to cry anymore. 

at least not while I’m 17

please just let me be 17.

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