I can’t write in straight lines on chalkboards.
I can’t walk in straight lines down sidewalks,
and somehow the anarchist gets shoved down my throat and I still make it to school on time.
I’m one of those radicals that gets jipped into following the rules. And who’s fault is it? Those stretching trees outside that taught me to be in awe of God.

I love the color orange and orange sherbet and orange sunshine and orange discussions with best friends who’ve briefly forgotten that I’m supposedly “mentally ill”. But, they don’t get that that thing that crawls up their nose and blows black nothings around their brain is the same depression that I’ve been whispering with for a year.

I love to love hard.

I love storytelling.
I don’t write as much about myself cause
I’m convinced that I know the rest of the people in my head better.

I love church.
But then
I walk outside and cuss out the d--- daffodils that get in my m----- f------ way.

But, I’m confused. why am I the embarrassed one? why am I ashamed? why am I left so damn humiliated? When HE’s the one who painted ME then ripped ME from his walls? and now, I can’t trust the world.

I’ve always been the shepard that loves onto brother, sister. been the well that carries mommy’s pain, backpacks daddy’s grief. been the catcher in the rye that ladles soup to the wandering. now, my soul sags.

I turned 16
3168 hours ago.
and I still don’t know who I am.

but honestly, i AM happy



soul.