from a poem i wrote at sixteen, about six years ago. i do not know if it was for school or a time i was hospitalized. anything in italics is something I edited for clarity.

“Untitled

By: Jenna removed last name for privacy

This is a poem for the one who was once a jailer, a puppet master in disguise, whom society will dribble across your brow the warnings of what will come. Whose daggers pierced what was vital, the little esteem I had possessed, leaving one more hopeless than before- so past the point of suicide as that required energy. 

The dancing ghouls of utter aloneness dance on my walls as the soaked pillows beneath me offer a whole new level of comfort – one that could, at that time, be compared to no other. Sleep. Hours on end, you would allow me to gently snooze, for you were quite a match for a tired being.

I have never felt so alone, even in the world of slumber. Bright faces, only to hide my own within your cloak of desperateness- hatred for only yourself- surrounded me. Bright faces wonder of why I feel the way I do- why I dream of my own death like it’s a fairytale. I have no answer for them, because the cloak of desperado offers no answers, only weeping sorrows. Why do I feel like I feel?

I thought I was weak, only a sheep to this herder, but now I see.

I see that for too long, I wasn’t the person I could be; the only happiness I received was artificial. I write this because I long for the day of successful recovery- because the cloak of pure helpless isn’t the way to grace the world with your presence. So, I write this for Jenna removed again. I write this for recovery. Age 16, going on 17.

I will not let you win.”

xoxo,

jenna