It’s nights like this that make me wonder how much longer I can actually hang on. This pain, sledgehammer, hitting my chest, I can’t breathe. The self-harm recovery went well until it didn’t.
Who would I talk to? Whose should would I cry on? Who would even begin to understand what I’m feeling?
No one can see me like this. I’m trying to self-calm so I’ll update with some shit poetry I wrote.
Am I ready to part with my family?
I can’t be a feminist like you are
The way I was raised holds me back,
looking outside while I’m struggling to break free
I burn my bras, their words burn me
I defend the oppressed and I’m reminded who the oppressors look like
I try to say, “her body, her choice” I’m told I have no choice
I celebrate the legalization of gay marriage and they pray for me
I say I don’t want to be a mother and they tell me the function of my body
I share the outrage of the violated and I’m reassured that it doesn’t happen here
(it does).
Dysfunctional Daily 