Poem. Me. Katie Lewington.

Who is a broken person anyway
somebody you wouldn’t bet on to win? 

well, that’s me
you wouldn’t notice me
not ever
I don’t make myself loud enough or clear

Is it attention or validation we crave and is it that we get the two confused? 

Broken, I don’t like that
I’m not broken,  I am
I’m –
shit, I don’t know

You cannot assume from my past that I am broken and therefore a lesser person
anybody that meets me says I look innocent
but my demons chuckle because they are aware of the thoughts I have had

from my past that I am experienced and worn, used like an old shoe
handle carefully
she has nothing to lose

Is this my own paranoia? 

fuck,  I forgot what I was really going to write

that is maddening

Maybe that
I’m an outsider but

I don’t want to be
given me a stripe of head down, it isn’t you they are talking about
why would they

Yeah, you’re beautiful but only to fuck with
your mind isn’t worth enquiring about

It’s obscene,  really
for anybody to be sure of themselves

Perhaps it takes years to be in that position

this was going to be more of a poem
it’s turned into this
tripe

though really do we say yes I have had a mental illness,  the same as you have had a broken arm, nose –
breast implants

in recovery,  now? no
I am growing, evolving
constantly
that is my recovery
to not stagnate,  to grasp every opportunity

for every one of me
there is a person that has committed suicide
that is not with us
can not be

the demons are silent while they eat, scrape the plate clean
but they wish to claim more victims

mustn’t let them

I guess I am looking for somebody to tell me otherwise.

K.L 2016  ©

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