Come and tell me who I am,

And I’ll believe you

I’ve forgotten who I was –

Or never knew


I am turning a new page;

It’s voidness scares me,

And I beg, ‘write something now,

Write something true’


Come and tell me that I’m not

What mirrors tell me:

That I’m not a cracked vessel

Of stale dreams


Not a little girl at heart –

With aging features,

Whose old world is bursting

At the seams


Come and tell me what you think

I ought to be now;

Write a page for me

In my unfinished book


I am almost done with it; perhaps

Another couple stories;

At the ones that came before

I cannot bear to look

What Is It?

I hide my head

Inside my shoulders

And tightly hold myself

To stay upright


‘What is it

About me,’

I begin

To wonder,


‘That makes me feel

So small,

So full

Of self-disgust?’



Of the secrets

I won’t tell

Thus dwarfs me?’



Of the lies

I told

Keeps me thus chained?’


I lower to the ground

My eyes,

Dark, wounded,



And almost run,


I know I couldn’t

Run away


From shame:

It floods me




I drown in it


It’s all there is

To feel


‘What is it,’

I wonder,

‘I don’t know

About me,


That makes me

So deeply,

So relentlessly



Is it the fact

That I am


Devoid of beauty


Of any kind,


And unknown

To man?


Is it that, like the air

Which feeds my blood,

I am



With every kind of dirt,


And unknown

To man?


Or is it, maybe,

That I am a woman,

Whose hands and heart

Are cold, incapable of love?


Or is it simply

That I am too human?

With hundred strengths,

And weaknesses, and doubts?


I am a wave that beats against a rock:

I shift my shape but stone remains unchanged;

I turn to foam and run from it, ashamed


I am a gust of wind that runs into a face,

A withered face that’s seen the worst of storms,

And as I touch its scars, I lose my strength, ashamed


I am the wish that I cannot fulfil

I am the chance I never took with me,

Ashamed to be and, thus, bound not to be