Lily Nunez

They call us survivors

but did we really survive if the trauma still follows us like a shadow in a forest. like it’s footprints are left in our bed sheets. like our memories turned into nightmares that we can no longer run away from. but after all, we are survivors right? it’s like all my memories turned into photo graphics and all i could remember are the visual representations of when my life fell apart. they call us survivors because we find comfort in the pain. this pain helps us believe we were worth something. it showed us that we were wanted even if it was for a little time. but did we really survive, if our survival speech isn’t told as a success story, instead it is told as an apology to those who hurt us, even tho we weren’t the ones who should be saying sorry. so are we even survivors- If we are still suffocating in the fire even after it’s been put out. 

Free Verse

The clean room 

I catch myself obsessively cleaning my room every day, from when I wake up till the moment I close my eyes and go to sleep. 

I think there’s something wrong with me, but I’m not too sure. I’ve always thought I was a very clean person, but honestly, I think I clean to distract myself from letting the mess slip.

 I’ll keep dishes in my room for days, I won’t shower, or brush my teeth.

It’ll get so bad that my mom asks if I even brushed my hair today, and she says I look exhausted. That’s when I’ve noticed it’s gone too far. There’s no use; being diagnosed with OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) isn’t easy. At first, it made me realize why I act the way I do, but as time goes on, it just gets worse. 

As I’m watching a TikTok video, a phrase replays in my head;

“She waited at the bus stop.”
“She waited at the bus stop.”
“She waited at the bus stop.”
“She waited at the bus stop.”
“She waited at the bus stop.”

It’s infuriating to hear that phrase over and over again, but I can’t stop until it feels right. Every time I wash my hands, I have to wash every inch until I’m satisfied.
I may be in the bathroom for several minutes before I even turn off the water and dry my hands. 

There are times when I can’t control what my mind is doing; it consumes me.
It feels like boiling water starting at my feet as it rises to my legs all the way to the tip of my head, but it never actually reaches the top; it sits about an inch before. 

Just yelling at me, simply screaming as it rips my insides open.
Makes me want to crawl out of my mouth and scream with it.
Letting out all the anger and frustration this mental illness gives me. 

But at the end of the day, no matter what I do, the phrases and the actions just keep on repeating themselves, eating me up, bit by bit-
until there’s nothing left of me on the plate.
Empty.
And clean like my room.

Free Verse

My story 

When I read certain books, I fear that instead of reading someone else’s story, I’ll end up reading mine.

The type of story that keeps me up at night.
The crawling down my spine feeling.

I’m afraid that other people will see me for what I went through and not for who I am.

Free Verse

My type of Halloween 

Sometimes I wear a mask, not one that’s labeled as penny wise or Michael Myers, but one that hides my true self.
It’s the costume that I feel most comfortable in.

The outfit that I put on every morning without a second thought.
It’s such a good costume, people think it’s my everyday outfit.

So on Halloween, they ask why I hadn’t dressed up.
I reply, “I’m always faking who I am, why should it be different on a day like this?” 

Free Verse

The essence of you 

You kissed me, and my heart became a circus, unable to be tamed because your touch leaves me feeling spellbound. Tasting your lips was like morning coffee. Your hand entangled with mine, heart pounding every time you say my name, souls connected. 

I loved every second of it. But when I opened my eyes, you were gone. The feeling of you stayed, but your presence was nowhere to be found.

Free Verse