24 minutes | June 08, 2025 (22:33) |

i want to push people away—

the starvation i crave so badly.

heading west, someplace where the rising of the sun still feels possible

or buried east, a place to lay down my burdens like a body i killed.

i just want to push people away,

for the peace i owe to my mind, to my body, to my poems.

it’s been years of a battleground written on the face of mine—

a face of which joy and brightness should've honed.

a smart woman i am.

a great woman i am.

a good soul i am.

a good friend i am.

an abused human i am.

i want to push them all away.

i need distilled air, if ever it’s possible.

i need to breathe the way i should’ve,

when i turned sixteen.

twenty nears me with its axe—

a tree, i am. waiting to fall,

yet i’ve been lying on dead grass for so long.

was it moss wrapping around my dead potential?

were these vines roping down my best times?

i want to push people away.

i want to stand alone.

yet—who will pull me close?

a fear, an excuse,

my weapon to survive.

i just…

i’ve been hiding behind screens.

i feel so alone,

yet no one ever comes looking for me.

i sent letters and posters like a kid.

all my pastel colors are drained

and i feel so—

i don’t think i’m still me.

i want to push people away.

yet who’s gonna pull me?

it’s only ever been me,

magnetizing myself to people.

no one ever comes running after me.

even being tired feels wrong.

even being alone feels like i’m losing.

even running away feels like loss.

even writing this feels like lying.

but i’m not lying.

i feel so alone

and all i want is to push you all away.

yet—to whom may my concern ever be a concern?

i’m so mad at myself for speaking up

but never speaking the truth in it.

i’m angry that i say so much,

but never the point.

i’m disappointed that i’m brave enough to write this,

but i’ll still leave out the most of it.

i’m furious i’ll never let someone know

the feelings i’ve just written.

i want to push people away.

but if i did,

none would ever stay.

all i ever do is stay.

all i ever say is “it’s okay.”

but i’m in so much pain.

yet it feels like it’s not much—

not enough to weigh against the burdens

everyone else around me carries.

all i ever do is fail.

yet i’ve been succeeding these days.

i got what i want.

i got what i love.

i got what could make me feel better.

but every time…

every time i do,

i see the tip of my mountain rolling down.

it pulls my arm and my leg

until i’m number.

i want to push them away.

i want to stand, cry, break, feel,

and be me—all alone.

yet i’m scared that once i’m done breaking,

no one will ever greet me hello.

you disappeared this,

you disappear that—

and all of your fears become the gifts you’re receiving.

that’s why i hate myself.

i wish i was brave enough to leave and say goodbye

the way i’ve always been brave enough to stick around,

no matter how bad the reception became.

i wish i was never scared of losing people.

i wish it so badly

that now i believe no one’s really scared of losing me.

am i even one of the “people”?

i look around and see ghosts of nothing.

just nothing.

none of what i think

feels like it’s really for me.

sometimes i get suicidal

and i can’t even talk about it.

people have it worse—

i compare myself to all of my friends.

they had this. they had that.

i only have this,

and there’s never enough of that.

i eat.

i breathe.

i go to a good school.

i have great friends.

i have my family.

i get good grades.

yet i still have the courage to complain

about a normal weight on my chest?

have shame.

i hate myself,

and i wish i could push people away.

why do i even want to?

why

why

why

i’ve been this way for years and years.

i’ve been dealing with it—

so why am i not improving?

i treated my own wound this week.

it bled so much i hid in my room to fix it.

it looked so bruised and infected.

two of my friends even noticed.

but i said none of the truth.

i told myself: i can handle it.

i bled so much, i feared septicemia.

covered it up—maybe bacteremia?

my elbow is healing now,

yet none of them knew how that wound

made me worry so much.

i thought i’d lose my arm.

but i treated it on my own.

without any help.

ironic, isn’t it?

to be in a family of medicine

yet feel the need to prove

i can deal with something alone.

foolish!

i wore oversized shirts to hide it.

bent my elbow because it hurt when i stretched.

now my skin is peeling,

and no one knows i had it.

it was deep.

and all i asked for

was cotton and Betadine.

i hate myself.

i want to push people away.

i just deal with things on my own.

yet when i speak,

i just want to confess everything.

it’s so heavy.

i feel alone.

i feel wrong.

i feel bad.

i feel nothing.

i feel alone.

i want to push people away—

please.

please.

just please.

for once,

let me push even just one away.

but i can’t even do that.

even pushing one

feels like i’ll lose everything.

i usually cry over my poems.

yet this time,

the heaviest it’s ever been—

no tear escaped me.

what a numb, heartless woman i have become.