Who am I

To the world? A sketch in

The scrapbook of star

Dust and light, made

Of ribbons and thought.

Who am I to

Thoughts?

A passing mortal with

Brittle bones and a broken

Mind.

Who

Am I to these

People? A supposed ball

Of energy that

Only strives to help.

Who am I

To myself? A disappointing

Piece of flesh who

Thinks she does her best-

I hate her.

Who am I without

Hate? I hate her so,

She thinks she tries, but

Only fails herself and

Herself.

Who is she

With a goal? Striving

To be better and go further

Only to tear down her own

Pillers.

God I hate her

so--plays as if she’s

Good, speaks as if

She IS trying-

Lives as if there’s more for her.

There is nothing.

Nothing for her. Nothing

But her own vat of

Acid to burn scars in her

Skin and holes in her mind.

The urge

She has to rip into

Her flesh and pull open her bones

And expose her imperfections

Is suffocating.

Who am I, to

Deny her the right

To grip her own neck

And crush my chords

Of existence?