In January I had submitted.

A version of myself to people who had never met me. I tried to be the person they wanted me to be, and in the end, I became the person they never wanted.

 

In February I began my out-of-body experience, and never returned.

I no longer knew who I was, I only knew who I was supposed to be.

 

In March I tried to be happy.

 

In April I wasn’t.

 

In May, I was rejected. A version of me had died.

Rejected. They

Rejected. Saw

Rejected. Through

Rejected. The

Rejected. Person

Rejected. That

Rejected. Never

Rejected. Existed

Accepted. Luckily.

 

In June, I had to watch my parents be proud of me, while the world laughed at me.

 

In July I tried to be happy again. I wrote letters to the ocean, to the stars, to the earth.

I never got a reply.

 

In August, a part of me came back, while another part of me had to leave.

 

In September, I realized that I wasn’t myself. I found pieces of myself strewn across a campus I barely knew.

 

In October, I lost someone. I wrote letters to her.

I called to her,asking why she left her whole family behind.

I never got a reply.

 

In November, I wrote myself back into the blank pages of a journal that was once full.

I wrote and wrote and wrote and realized who I was is not who I am.

 

In December, I left the place that helped me become a person, and planned to go to a place that saw through me, hoping that maybe they’ll see I’m real this time.

But I had found myself.

And that was all I needed to move on.

 

In January I submitted a version of myself to people who had never met me. I am the person I want to be, and it doesn’t matter if I’m not the person they wanted .