An odd sort of Poetry

I. Am. Fine.

berate me.

degrade me.

chip away,

until I fall apart.

give me your worst

because even at my best

I’ll never be what you expected,

what you wanted,

what you tried to make me.

I’ll never fit the mold you forged for me:

my perfect gpa,

my outstanding resume,

my back-breaking effort,

my gut-wrenching dedication,

although they slowly kill me,

these are things you’ll never see.

you’ll never see past the me you wish me to be.


you’ll never see me cry.

such activities are reserved for late at night when I question why.

Why do I continue leading a life I despise?

Why do I even try?

Why don’t you love me?

Why do these invisible tears never dry?

Why do I feel so empty in this sea of people?

When my smile breaks, and they question why,

why do I always feel the need to lie?

I am okay. Really I’m fine.

I. am. fine.


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