POETRY

Surviving

What is left can only be me

Photo by on

Read without a Medium membership here

I could be kept
‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎(so easily kept)
porcelain-skinned and perfect
in someone else’s collection

I could be broken
‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎(so convincingly broken)
drawing moths to my flame
who mistake their need to fix
for love

I’ve worn “together” like a secondhand coat
practiced the smile
rehearsed the lines
while something inside
‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎‎vomits
at how well these paths are trodden

But here —
in this space between roles
I am choosing
‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎‎the unscripted life

No applause
No choir
No gold stars on my forehead
for doing the small things
that make me an
‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎adult