Pens and markers scattered,

Post-It notes on the pale walls,

that one, blue stubborn painting

that won’t stay, that only falls,

the writer sitting sleepily,

hair in a bun, hands holding

a phone lighting up the room.

She imagines a scene of

a woman driving at high,

high speeds, going vroom-vroom.

But in reality, she

only stares, scrolls forever.

Letting her peers go beyond,

watching them be her better.

Her energy’s zapped out,

as if using her phone hurt

not only her phone percent

but her energy declined

just as terribly, as quick.

At least she’s quiet, learning,

that’s what others say, but then,

they complain she’s too quiet.

She likes math? Why not science?

They complain she’s too loud too,

when she speaks two sentences.

Now, everyone… is SHE you?

Of course, we’re living with us.

Men don’t cry, women are weaker,

and what happens if you’re not either?

The writer’s got depression,

her best friend committed harm,

but she sits in her room sound.

She wakes before her alarm.

Does she even sleep at all?

Her eyes lost their spark they had,

but people look at her room,

not her messed up mind and heart,

they say, “what’s with the cups and

crumpled paper on the desk?

Are you an animal? Clean up!”

The writer does, at some point,

but she still sees their scowls.

She thinks, “why are they so mean?”

Our little writer has lost

herself in a world of lies,

so she ran back to her books,

her past, her notes, her music-

she didn’t just lose her mind,

no, it’s far worse than that, but

she’s lost every bit about

the way she smiles and laughs,

the way it feels to write one

chapter at a time, a little

bit trapped in her fun mind and

a little more hurt than she

would admit to anyone.

So tell her when you see her,

how she is someone’s Sun,

their moon or their shining stars,

their warmth on a winter day,

the bandages that bind a scar.

Tell her she’s their only way.

But is she the little girl

who you used to ask to stay?

Or is she the depressed child

who no one bothered to say

‘hello’ or even ‘goodbye’

to?

I’m sorry if this poem

is about the reader, but it’s

also about the author.

I’m sorry it’s about you.