And the day before It’s a cold Fall morning. The sun peaks from behind the mountains, to light up the city in it’s warm glow. I carefully tread on my creaky floorboards. The night lingers in the wood, as if trapped inside- the cold like frost prickling my toes. My breath is warm on the cold air, dragons dancing from my tongue. I turn the shower faucet, and bare myself in the steam of the hot water- relishing the soft heat on my skin. I retreat into the gushing waterfall of the shower. First my hands, bracing for the heat- and then my arms, my chest, my legs. I close my eyes, hold my breath and slowly let the water wash over my hair, my head- covering my eyes and my mouth. I feel each droplet, before it turns into a storm. And then I cry. My fingers move over my arms- rinsing the nightmare from my skin. They move deftly across my chest, my abdomen- following the pattern from yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. And the day before. One hand covers my mouth- silencing the whimpers that might escape should I not be careful. Silencing any evidence of the twisting, stabbing pain below my navel. My fingers finish their pattern- and I subconsciously go through the motions of a real wash, methodically dealing with the tangle of hair, the grime of skin, and the process of shaving. Stepping out was always the hardest. I check to make sure the mirror is steamed before reaching for my towel- the empty space heavier than it was yesterday. And the day before. It doesn’t take long for the mirror to clear- the clouds of warmth replaced by the cold air. And I see it. The lies painted into every strand of my hair, the melancholy of my heart, the unspeakable self-loathing in every line of my face, my eyes full of desperation. I see every line of disquietude I have ever carved into my skin- a tally of every second anxiety gripped my wrist and drew a map of every inch of skin I hated. I see every picture I painted onto my skin permanently, in hopes that if I wore art on my skin- I would feel beautiful. I see every hole I ever pierced and filled with jewels to sparkle brighter than I had ever felt. And I cry. Every morning. After every night, dreaming that I was myself- and then waking up and finding myself a stranger. A nightmare that no shower washes away. And yet I tried again. Like yesterday, And the day before. And the day before. And the day before. My 9 year old self still weeps in every false smile.

22 year old girl with a laptop Who am I. Every poet starts by writing about themselves. About their emotional and physical turmoil. Millions of #poems about break ups and lost loves and death and births and being lost and being found. Who am I to tell you my story as if it is more important than yours. As if you are privileged to hear my story. As if it is special that you get to hear it. My father taught me that the opposite of love is indifference. How indifferent can you be if you continue to write about it? To memorise the words and tell them to audiences. To immortalise them in books and posts. How indifferent can you be if you turn it into something that defines your #life. Who am I. Every poet turns to writing about their journey to enlightenment. Of finding themselves among the rubble of their #life, of how they turned everything around. The truth is, that’s not how people find themselves. It isn’t loud and beautifully intertwined word written on a napkin in a coffee shop. It isn’t breathing and standing on cliffs. It’s quietly sipping your tea, before drinking a bottle of wine to yourself and falling asleep heavy and sound. It’s going about your day the same as normal and letting time do what it does- go on. Who am I. I’m no poet. I’m a 22 year old girl with a laptop and too many thoughts.

Finding Yourself Finding yourself is not as beautiful as everyone makes it out to me. Every tumblr post ever has lied to you. You don’t find yourself with arms splayed open wide with glacial winds whipping your hair at the top of a mountain during the golden hour. You don’t find yourself perfectly perched in a coffee shop with hands dramatically wrapped around a mug in a matching winter outfit, smelling the pumpkin spice latte you just ordered. And you don’t find yourself in the arms of yet another man destined to mistreat you, at 1am thinking of all the things he does that you hate but it’s okay you can fix him. Finding yourself is the ugliest experience in the world. Finding yourself is unwrapping every layer of habit you have ever accumulated and deciding whether or not you want to keep it- and if you don’t, trying to figure out how to get rid of it for good. It’s like losing weight when you’re the kind of person who gains 10kg by looking at a slice of cake. Finding yourself is realising you order latte’s because your mum always ordered them and so that was what you first learnt to order- but you actually hate the milk to foam to coffee ratio. It’s going to a coffee shop and wanting a cappuccino but still ordering a latte because saying “large soy latte” is so ingrained in your speech that to not say it is to disown your own mother. It is putting 3 sugars in your coffee and kicking yourself because you prefer lactose free milk but you’ve just always said soy. It’s ordering a lactose free cappuccino and waiting for the repercussion, that never comes. Finding yourself is staying home on weekends, bored, and not knowing why. It’s realising that every boyfriend you’ve had has demanded you be home and around to ignore while they play video games. It’s realising you say no to invitations of parties and going out because you’ve always been too scared to ask permission from your previous boyfriends. It’s picking up your phone to call your boyfriend to ask if you could be an hour late home because you wanted to have a drink with your work mates, then realising you left him 4 weeks ago, 180 000km away- and he already has a new partner. Finding yourself is putting the phone down, ordering a double and hoping the vodka will hide your shaking hands. Finding yourself is falling for yet another boy with the same name as your first love, and not knowing whether it was coincidence or masochism. Finding yourself is noticing you’re only swiping right on men with kids in their profiles, as if you’re trying to fill a void your stepdaughters love once filled. Finding yourself is walking down to the quay at the bottom of your street, looking over the water and crying. Crying for the lack of self you feel. Crying for every panic attack you’ve ever had after your lovers sexual touch turned into the scald of a nightmare once lived. Crying for every uneasy fall of your stomach when a boyfriend has hung up on you, so afraid to be alone. Crying for how long you held on to a boy who would never be a man for you. Crying for every emotional outburst you were unable to control, that lost you leadership and friends. Crying for how far you had to run to peel back these layers. Crying for how you wish you could go back and fix who you were. Finding yourself is looking at every curve and dip on your face, and wondering how you could think your mother so beautiful, but yourself so ugly- when you have her nose and her smile. It’s wondering how the eyes your father gave you could make you see the good in everyone you meet, but only the ugly in everything you do. Finding yourself is reaching for a book and wondering who made you put them down for so long, and why you listened. Finding yourself is caressing every purple scar on your thigh and crying for how lost you felt. Finding yourself is every morning in the mirror. Finding yourself is every latte you don’t order. Finding yourself is every Sunday spent exploring. Finding yourself is not falling in love with another Michael. Finding yourself is crying. Finding yourself is doing things you once abandoned but always loved. Finding yourself is healing mistakes you once made. Finding yourself is a process. I’ll let you know when I finally do.

Dear Universe, Dear Universe, Fuck you. Fuck you for everything you threw at me. For every time you threw me to the ground. For every heartbreak I have had to endure. For every love you told me was mine, then ripped from my grasp. For every hard choice you made me make that meant guilt and regret no matter what I chose. For everyone you walked into my #life only to let them walk out again. For giving me dreams to grip on to and believe in only to let me watch them shatter beneath the bones in my feet. Fuck you for the people you let me give my heart to, destroy myself and deprive myself for. For the love I have given away, never destined to have it returned to me. For the time you let me spend chasing people who didn't even know my name. For the parts of my soul I let be torn from my chest because I thought it was worth it. Fuck you for the oceans I have cried. For letting me flood the bath as I weeped into my own arms, because no one else's arms were for me. For the rivers of red I watched swirl around my feet with shaking hands. For the purple stripes that will forever serve as a reminder of the paths of unwanted fingers all over my body. For the flexibility you gave me that made my legs so desirable. Fuck you for the pain. The altogether unbearable ache of sadness I feel. The all-consuming fire of anger I feel. The intoxicating high of happiness I feel. For the complete and utter lack of control of these wildfires. Fuck you for the inability to feel. For the underwhelming emptiness that plagues my soul in an erotic embrace. For the ice I feel in my veins as he traces my skin. For the frostbite on my lips as I kiss him and try to remember how it felt to be warm. Fuck you for gifting me with the cold grip of unfathomable anxiety. No poetry will ever come close to explaining the complete disconnect you feel as a human unable to escape a body that is processing too much sensory data at one time to physcologically comprehend meaning that your lovers whispers have turned to shouts and the second they touch you, your voice screams hoarse as a victim and you flinch to the other side of the world. Fuck you for this existence. I can hear my mother. I can hear her silence in the car, I’m 10 years old. I’ve just been diagnosed with Major #depression Disorder, Stress Disorder, and Anxiety Disorder. I can hear the silence that weighed so heavily I don’t remember how my small bones took the weight. I remember when she said ‘why would you do this to me?’ That’s what it feels like now. 12 years on. Why would I do this to you. I can hear myself. 18 years old. My #life dreams shattered with the bones in my ankle. My career gone. My passion destroyed. Beaten and despairing, lying on my bed and crying. It’s so hard to hear. It almost isn’t there. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been there. Underneath all my sadness and rage and despair that I am screaming in my mind. Behind the wall of #depression and anxiety and empty condolences- A little voice. A little voice, barely a whisper, barely a sound at all. Picking up shards of glass that was once my heart and soul. Shaking the rug I swept my pain under. A little voice, filled to the brim with the pain I refused to feel. A little voice that said 3 words. 3 words filled with more fire than a dragons breath. 3 words barely audible, and yet carried weight heavier than my mothers uttered sentence. I am alive. I. Am. Alive.

Shield or Sword I got told to fill my mouth with medicine, to block the thoughts of suffering. I took them and drowned. I broke and shattered into a million pieces and every time I tried to hold them together, the fragments slipped through my fingertips like the ocean of sorrow I felt has welled up inside me. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I was stuck inside a fog that got thicker each time I reached out. Thick with self-doubt, insecurity, and fear. I shook so hard my bones rattled and my fingers couldn't dial SOS. And then I stopped. One day I let the pills fall to the floor and I walked away. The next morning, I breathed. I brushed my hair with a swift but steady stroke, and I saw my reflection clearly. I still struggle, and my demons were never gone, and I do not believe for a second I was taking poison. But I think holding a shield held me in place, that I was waiting to be struck and the effect of the attack resonated in my soul. So I've put down the shield and picked up a second sword. I haven't given in, but I'm not going to use the shield anymore. It didn't help me, I don't need it.