Trigger Warning: this poem is literally the ramblings of my very depressed and anxious mind and i talk about some life experiences such as being queer, the possibility of getting raped and the way my mental illness manifests within me, so please read with caution.
i wish i was anyone but me often. someone who was saturated, rather than shades of grey. someone who knew who they wanted to be, a semblance of reality, in my- i don't even have dreams.
a little less queer, so i won't have to constantly explain, feel perpetually misunderstood, having to choose when to refrain, from speaking, out, for, my own safety. but the anger remains and i am tortured for doing nothing, by my own mind.
a little less like having to be someone who looks, who needs to, look behind, and pay attention, to silhouettes and, shadows. to sudden noises that could lead to harrow- ing experiences.
a little less scared about my own well being, so i could fight for my ideologies, so i could help change, but rape, death, friends, becoming the worst enemies, the fear, it stops me.
a little less mentally abnormal, so i wouldn't be wrecked, every time the news reaches me, every time the world argues with me, every time my identity is a debate. have a well thought out argument instead of crying, and the feeling of my muscles tensing, the air getting harder to inhale the need to escape, ever growing.
so much to be proud of, but, so much i want to change. growth, they remind me, is, everlasting, ever-going; a process, but, the unhappiness, the self pity, it keeps me, feeling like a boy with no life ahead of me, even when i am, happy.