Everywhere I go, I get these fucking flashbacks,
Trying to break free from all these memories.
Every time I get one its another fucking setback,
Running through the motions without knowing what they mean.
I try to turn my mind off to learn it's not enough,
Hiding out in rooms that no one else can see.
Never have I ever been okay with opening up,
I don't want them to know the real me.
I try to block it out with whatever I think can help,
Turning to the things people usually call a crutch.
Spending my energy working through my bookshelf,
Understanding the kid that says,"I want to die so much."
YOU ARE READING
Mistaken
PoetryA book of poems about the LGBT, depression, selfharm, suicide, freedom, and society.
