A Poetic Death
i’ve been at war
with three versions of myself—
the one i betrayed,
the one i performed,
and the one
who never had the chance to live.
i was made for a life
my life has not allowed.
my world fashioned me
into something
i was never meant to be—
hard, pained, punished.
i’ve twisted into a shape
that met others’ needs
before they ever met mine.
they took,
like i was spoils,
a prize torn from something dying,
never meant to be returned.
but i remember the original plan.
i remember the first war cry
before they showed me
what a child should be afraid of.
and i’m done.
done performing dead things.
done dying in service
to a life i never chose.
let the old versions rot.
let them die the deaths
i was too polite to give them.
this is a poetic death.
not of me,
but of every lie i told
to make survival look like victory.
i will not war with myself another year.
i will not treat my truth like a liability.
my softness is the armor.
my audacity, the anthem.
this is the end of pretending
i don’t know who i am.