[NOTE: I'm a non-binary person, my pronouns are they/them. At the beggining of the poem, I talk about the period of time I considered myself a girl. When I start speaking in first personand I talk about "they" I'm talking about myself. I hope that clears it up]

 

Your baby girl is always sad

 

After you gave her all you had.

 

She's playing alone or with whoever she can

 

She gets ostracized every other day.

 

Your little girl is always sad

 

After you gave her everything you had.

 

She hopes for a future, she's not living now

 

She doesn't fit here she wants to get out.

 

Your little woman is always sad

 

Even though you cannot get your life back.

 

She's analyzing now what could have go wrong

 

And, the thing is, you ruined it. You. Both.

 

Your loving girl is always sad

 

After what you gave her wasn't enough.

 

My lovers, you broke me

 

In every possible way

 

Though some of you were just okay.

 

That last girl is always sad,

 

She was your love, or still is, hard to figure out.

 

But she cries, knowing for sure that this time

 

You really gave her everything you had,

 

And still,

 

somehow,

 

it wasn't

 

enough.

 

The person I am is always sad

 

After doing for themselves everything they can.

 

They’re holding a lot, realities overlap

 

And they just know they cannot choose just one.

 

This person is me, I am always sad

 

After giving myself everything I had.

 

But that was part of the problem, wasn't it?

 

Look at what I have, can't you see?

 

Desires for fantasies, never living in the moment,

 

I want to be happy, but I don't give me that option,

 

The memories are stuck, the traumas, what I hold

 

I'm trying really hard, but I just can't let go.

 

I cannot choose a path and pursuit the end,

 

I end up drifting, going away.

 

I end up in pain.

 

I end up alone.

 

I end up in a house with doors made of stone.

 

But my mind wants to follow all of these paths,

 

They don’t know that's not how an adult acts.

 

They want to be a writer, a singer, to play,

 

To create feelings with their hands, to make art with their pain.

 

They want to be a different self every day,

 

One day a blue mullet, the other a brown mane,

 

One day a boy, another a girl, always a mixture, never the same.

 

They want to be successful, like society says.

 

Sometimes they want it too, like really, the same way.

 

Being a themboss, going to work, not having a breakdown, making a home.

 

And they can even settle for a little less,

 

A job they don’t hate, some friends to spend the day.

 

Now, I'm sure everyone wants what I do,

 

Some impossible shit that has no value.

 

So, how come they can live their fake lives,

 

That they can be functional without fulfilling their desires?

 

I'm so ashamed, it's stupid, no one will understand.

 

"Get up, carry on, you can't stay there

 

In bed, all day, crying, all alone,

 

You have to go back,

 

You have to make it work."

 

And I know, you see? I know,

 

But the window is shattered

 

And so is my mirror.

 

And I'm no Yatora Yaguchi* to make it into art,

 

I wish I could be like him,

 

Right now, choosing my path,

 

I wish I was still on time.

 

But my time is over,

 

Now my need is to survive,

 

Being here or there, it doesn't matter.

 

It's the same pain and the same wrath.

-

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