I look at old photos of a younger me,
she is smiling, bright and alive.
she is ignorant, so she is free.
She hasn't yet understood her present,
What I now define as a painful past.
She was dying; but so unaware
Sadly, this would not last.
I look back to then and my tears stain the pages;
the ink runs, blurring those entries of so long ago.
I cry, knowing this journal was the solace in my cage.
Holding it, I feel everything again, in waves.
Only now, instead of writing
I turn to the comfort of rebellion;
things to make me feel further from myself.
I find it easier to let pretty boys with big eyes
tell me who to be, high and numb.
It is more simple to reach the end of the bottle
than the end of my pain.
The truth is, I lost touch.
I wish I were myself again.
But who would that even be?
My reflection can only be seen in murky waters;
unsure and disfigured.
So many people are around.
Voices, faces, brushing past.
They know my name. They may know more.
But none know me.
Because there is no me.
There used to be,
in these journals that I hold.
But she is gone, with the hurt of years ago.