Upon Being Told to Be True to Myself
JENNA STONE
I am weak
pliable
Unlike the gods
the masters
the voices . . .
I will crumble
when it is time to stand tall
spineless.
I will take the road most traveled
and still trip
over both of my feet.
I will drive peering back through my rearview mirror
only to crash into the school bus right in front of me.
I swim in my own pool of pity.
Ashamed of who I am
of who I was
of who I’ve never become
and never will.
Speak to me.
I will listen.
And change
my words
my voice
my ideas
until . . .
they are yours.
I am a liar
a coward
a thief
hiding in the tumor
of someone who is real.
I am a scared box
of teeth and hair
waiting to be noticed
and ultimately extracted.
Plucked out by
Saviors
Doctors
anyone who will finally notice me.
You want me to be true to myself?
Fuck you!
I don’t even know that Girl anymore.
I have traveled
and hidden, shivering,
under cum-stained mattresses
discarded in the wash
by happily married politicians.
The cold
makes me forget
the heat
makes me want to.
And in the end
there is just this:
a piece of paper
and these words.
I woke up today
not really sure
if my eyes were wide open
or shut tightly.
When does it cease to be life
and begin to be
a painless
mere
existence?
the heroine
the elixir
the anti-life . . .
The room is spinning
as I lie shackled
hard to the earth
in the lies
the sweat
the sex
the torture.
Disappointments.
Betrayals.
Abuse.
I’ve had enough.
I am alone.
There is nothing here
left to save me.
I have nothing
own nothing
and will be nothing.
Lost and discarded,
used and abandoned.
How diabolical
to be shoved
into this prison.
of empty bodies
waiting for a soul
to be squeezed in.
Eyes bright
hoping to conquer
an already conquered world.
What is at risk?
Only this:
An apology
for being me.