s e l e c t e d p o e m s
I used to carry my past with me like a crumpled piece of paper. A tight ball of shame and regret inside my pocket. I relived my darkest moments day after day.
I scribbled new traumas down.
With the weight of my vices strapped to my back
I tried to move forward
without letting go.
I left home broken and frail, my cracks exposed
despite layers and layers of fake smiles and feigned light-heartedness.
I left in a desperate attempt not to fill them in, but to fall in love
with the way they paint my body.
From far away,
I look like a spot on a map that is covered in rivers.