I’m writing all this here to probably nobody, for no reason, maybe its that nobody hears me or sees me.

Nobody listens. Everything I say even if it’s hurting me, only ends up hurting them. It’s safe here, in this little white empty box where I can just let my fingers run rogue on a keyboard.

I just want to be me. I’d like to meet me. I sit for hours a day wondering who she is, what she would be like. I imagine she’s strong, brave, that she’s fun and energetic, and smells of fresh air and mandarins.

I guess what’s strange, to imagine what your real self is and maybe slightly estranged.

But when you’ve tried to create pieces of yourself, by pulling the broken pieces from other people to show them their beauty, when you’re left with their ugly.

I’m a piece of everybody, I suppose. Some wicked, morphed type of chameleon if you will, however the colours stick in places they should have faded.

I take the anger, the pain, the insecurities of people I love, and I hold those so they can be beautiful. So they can be their best selves.

Ive tried, you know? My friend big white screen.

To be myself. It starts by explaining my feelings, my hurt, my worries and all the nightmares.

Dressing myself how I want, putting my hair on the part I’d like it to sit, but it’s an attack, I’m always attacking someone or hurting another person by doing that.

I guess it’s because they prefer seeing the broken pieces than whatever lies beneath all of that.

It’s funny, people like to ask me what I want to be, what I want to do, what job I want and I can never answer, I sum it up with psychology, or helping someone because I suppose that’s all that I am and have been, but I just want to find me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I’m with a man who’s pieces I’ve kept, with all the other pieces.

It took me a while to get to where I’m at. You don’t even want to know what I’ve seen, felt, and gone through, big white screen.

This boy, when I found him he was lovely and sweet, I wanted to take his pieces, his angry, hateful pieces and show him the soft, inspiration of a man he was underneath all of the hard clay that kept him warm, I wanted to show him it was okay to be cold sometimes, even if it’s terrifying and uncomfortable, it’s okay.

This boy, i did not realise, amongst the love and the wickedness, showed me every part of him, every raw piece. But it always, it always comes with a price. Every time.

It was different, what I did with his pieces were different, I put them in a spot that the pieces don’t quite go, they went into the softest parts of me.

Before I could see specks and dashes of myself through it all, but they got covered along the way.

There were no gaps. I have covered myself, and given the rest of what I could see to this boy.

When a part of myself seeps through, he closes it so fast, if I feel one way and talk about it, I absolutely shouldn’t feel like that and he reminds me of the horrible person I really am, the person I took from him. He’s always screaming at a mirror, correcting it, swearing at it, making it smaller and smaller, but he doesn’t even realise that it’s himself, just in pieces I’ve taken, to show him his beauty.

But,

It hurts me.

Every time.

All the time.

Because I’m never, can ever be me.

It’s peculiar,  you know.

Because once you do what I do, it takes a lot of time and a lot of hurt thrown in your face. They throw all their ugly at you, for you to throw them love. And when you take that ugly away and consume it inside yourself, you become like them.

And then they hate you for it.

They hate you for being them.

They hate for when you try to be you afterwards.

They lose sight of the sacrifice, that under all that there is a person of her own, and she hurts, she wants to scream, she wants to cry and she always, always wants to run.

But she won’t, because she is you.

So, big white screen

I guess I can tell you that I’ve come from a time of difference.

I’ve been homeless, and when I say that I don’t mean for a few days. Let me tell you what homeless is, what my homeless was,

For years, as a child I ran to find safety, however my safety always became another person, another place, another train, park, hospital, house, room, bus. That was safe to me.

I was sold, for sex. Nobody cares enough to hear the vulgar about that, so I won’t trouble you, big white screen.

You know I’ve almost died? A few times, by my own hand. It took me a while to realise, I couldn’t do it properly. So I gave up, after 9 years. People say I’m doing better. No I just gave up, because I couldn’t do it properly. I suppose, what’s worse? Trying to die? With all the emotions leaving? Or living with them, allowing them to fester, and grow, and take over the flowers of your mind.

And big white screen,

People say I’ve come a long way, some, rarely.

But there’s a big secret.

I’d rather be homeless than where I am now.

Because homeless I was, but I wasn’t alone. The parts of me peeked through, even if it was just a glance. I could see those parts. And it was lovely.

And I suppose that’s where I’m at.

If I could give you some of these pieces, big white screen. I would. I’d give them all away.

I don’t even hate them, that they have given me all their pieces. I just hate myself, whatever that is right now.