poems for the dead

wrong

how can one feel so utterly wrong in their own skin-?

existing is to feel like a nuisance 

annoying to anyone around you-

fucking creepy, even though all you want to do is hold their hand-

could it be wrong to want to feel valid-?

could it be wrong to love, and be loved?

could it be wrong to feel, even for a second, like a stable human?

in your eyes, yes.

to exist is to be judged-

not necessarily by others, but by the worst of them all, yourself 

because you cannot tell whether you are actually in need of help or incredibly good at fooling others that you are the victim 

no one needs to hear your worries, you say to yourself-

you tell yourself that to live is to be wrong

and hell, who knows for sure if you're wrong or not-?

so instead of contemplating your downfalls and plotting out how to be good, risk the chance of it

if you're so wrong, then why are you so beautiful?

why is your brain so unique?

you'll argue against this, that you are simultaneously too broken and not broken enough-

but in every way, shape, and form, 

you. are. enough.

rest awhile, and tell the sadness welling in you like an old friend that it cannot control you, that you cannot live with it, but only visit-

set healthy boundaries, darling