i'm tired of organizing myself
in ways people understand.
labels and diagnoses,
smiles and faded scars.
can't you just see me,
this doll smashed on the sidewalk?
this forgotten piece of a dream
imploding on herself
but even as i burn the smoke
is still not black enough.
i wish i could show you,
i wish you could see me but no one can.
that is my curse,
a ghost of a girl still judged,
relief in life nor death.
there is no rest.