Really can’t bring myself to function, so i shall write;
Writing is a human condition.
When i was fifteen, a good friend said
that i was the sun
another told me she liked the radiance in my cheeks
Not quite long after the same friend told me
that i was mud,
sloppy and incapable of lifting myself up
and another told me i was blushing
When i was seventeen, a classmate complimented
on my kindness
another told me she liked my cheerfulness
Not quite long after the same classmate told me
that i seemed pretentious,
no one would like someone without opinions
another told me i was trying too hard.
When i was eighteen, a girl told me
that i understood her best because we’ve both lost our loved ones
then she taught me how to smoke
to kill ourselves quicker.
When i was nineteen, a girl told me
that she liked my story,
it gave her a sense of purpose,
and so i gave her everything – innocence, time, and respect
until i ran out of them
and she ran out of abuse to give.
When i was twenty, a girl told me
that she was too shy to speak over the phone
or stand up to her friends
so i gave her courage and self-respect,
until other girls took them away from us.
When i was twenty-three, a girl told me
that she was working too hard
and she wanted to be loved
so i gave her leisure and freedom,
until she confiscated mine.
When i was twenty-four, a girl told me
that she appreciated my feelings
and she validated them at her best
but towards the end, she told me i was not a good fit
that i should seek therapy.
I’ve been both mud and sun to the same person
i’ve been both radiance and mere blush to another
a kind pretence, a hard-working cheer
a suicidal smoker
an empty flirt
a self-righteous landlady
a submissive partner,
and just a meaningless sad story.
And i no longer know if all these which they’ve said make me up
or if i have made them up.