by Shannon Norman 5 months ago in sad poetry

written during hard times

Photo by Michael Dziedzic on Unsplash

It’s my 21st birthday,

I am faking happiness,

I am faking a smile,

I am faking mental strength.

But I am not happy,

I am not content,

This is a shell and I’ve been fooling every single one of you.

I could not even tell you how.

I am easily irritable and have a reputation of being surly.

My eyes show lines that confidently display I toss and turn at night.

I unfortunately do not know how to keep any form of relationship going.

But maybe I’m just being myself.

This shell is what everyone, myself included, is used to.

Looking back onto my childhood, my mind only picks the memories that twist my insides.

These recollections of disgusting things I’ve endured and let be that gouge me when I’m in a room by myself for more than 30 minutes.

Given one of my main characteristics, is often.

Lately, I’ve been slipping up.

My family, my friends, my reflection almost never see this side of me.

I’m at work, a job I’ll probably quit within the next few months,

Did I mention my fear of commitment?

I find myself feeling panicked because of the current rush and someone asks me if I’m okay.

When I turned to look at them, my eyes spilled tears down my cheeks.

I spent the next 10 minutes silently sobbing in the handicapped stall.

I guess my mind couldn’t wait until I got home that night.

There was a boy I thought I loved.

The problem was my mom taught me it’s okay to let someone treat you like shit.

Well, she never really taught me anything.

Followed her example without hesitation.

She did come through for me one time.

I was living at a friends’ house an hour away.

My father had decided between his seed and his foreign bride,

The latter was the way to go.

My mother called me, I hadn’t heard from her since she left me at her friends’ house a year prior.

Our conversation was short because my shell was weak.

She must’ve felt that.

The last thing she said to me was

“You don’t always have to be strong.”

The circle of self-destruction is continuous.

I personally do not fit the criteria to live in this world.

Six or seven nights a week I read subtitles through teary eyes.

Mumbling to myself reasons why I shouldn’t be allowed to breath.

Why someone who is terminally sick should be given my life force.

Why my mind is always against me.

Why my heart is meant to beat on its own.

Why my insecurities are eating me alive.

I get caught up in my lies trying to be parts of different worlds to see which will make me feel something besides okay.

But that wasn’t okay.

Now I tell the truth to justify seclusion.

None of this is okay, though.

A boy takes me on a date to the movies.

I think in my head of how he won’t be relevant by next year.

I am eventually told to get therapy and go one time,

The entire time I cry and scream,

Embarrassing myself because I won’t be back.

He was a quiet man who made me feel safe.

But that didn’t really matter.

Not enough money to return.

It is a tattered, scorned existence,

To be instilled with and only understand trauma.

I will turn my back on every person,

Who gets close to my truth.

No one can know me.

Running from the issues I can’t afford to solve.

Will my heart feel better if I just stop?

I keep scratching and burning it by accident.

I don’t know when I became so self-destructive.

It feels innate.

It feels learned.

sad poetry
Shannon Norman
Shannon Norman
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