The weed that pops through the crack.

The one who never asked for the attention,

that was brought upon her by silence in the chaos.

Decisions she never made and consequences she never asked for.

The feminist.

The anti-hero.

The "overly" woke.

You're too serious.

Too scared.

Too weak.

The one with the tattoos,

and imaginary friends and worlds beyond reality.

Writing isn't a job.

Education is more important.

When will you get a job?

A flower burning over the dying candle,

trying to rebuild her confidence,

to remelt the wax but nurture the roots.

An impossible task,

that creates a mask.

No invitations,

Or outlets.

Or simple "i love yous"

Or "how are yous"

On those sunny days when the world is bleak enough

that blood and pain are the only ways

to feel something,

to feel anything.

To remind yourself you're human.

That you breathe and drink and pay

with the vilest of consequences,

because you're the product of secondhand smoke.

You watch it drip onto the porcelain

while the family takes a break from your

drama.

Pain.

Overreactions.

"Grow up," they say. "It's all over. Get over it."

Their words break you like pressure breaks ice.

There are people you thought were nice.

Instead,

they're backstabbers and liars, illusionists.

You search for the song that will cure you,

the hope that someone will understand

where the withdrawal comes from.

You don't want to be a liability,

and make everyone suffer from your unreliability and inflexibility.

You fear your voice becomes too tiresome to the ear.

It ruins you and all you hear,

are the voices telling you to embrace silence.

Too scared to ask for help.

Too big to be considered fit.

Don't eat that cake,

even if you make

it for everyone's birthday, including your own.

All the love and happiness that's poured into the measuring,

the melting,

the mixing,

the baking,

the icing,

the decor.

Say something and they'll laugh.

Make excuses,

then speak behind your back.

Drink whisky on ice in a smoky pub,

blast the music at a club

without you and your calamities.

Sometimes you wonder if you should've pressed the razor blade harder into your skin

to reduce the waste of space.

Reciprocity. Empathy. Love.

Read a fucking dictionary.

The difference between immature and mature is a funny story.

It can bring you pain or glory.

When you look back at the photos,

you see the person you hated

or loved.

It brings the trauma back,

a ravenous monster that reminds you you were never meant to fit in.

It brings the memories back,

a sense of what happiness was like,

and the way you crave for it now.

The double-edged sword you never understood,

through the pain and suffering you withstood.

And maybe, you think, just maybe... that's okay now.

Because you've outgrown the people around you.

Accepted the loneliness and learned to love yourself,

even when the insecurities haunt you like folklore,

and for evermore.

You finally understand why the lyrics mean more than the air you breathe,

or why you fall in love with fictional characters.

And why you can never depend on your family.

They'll never let you play the music.

Explain a story or the relatability in a song.

Rave over a favourite character.

There's never reciprocity.

But perhaps they just don't know.

Just don't know how to match the power in your soul,

the strength in your blood.

the warrior cry that rattles the ground,

and leaves a mound

of ashes they stare at,

wondering how a little girl, how a woman

broke the barriers and was stronger than iron.

You are the flower breaking through the cement,

cracking the foundation

with the formation

of elation.

They stare and scratch their heads while

you keep your chin high and your lips painted in red,

reminding them of all the pain that was spilled,

and the blood that was tilled.

That's why you grow taller than anyone.

Alone.

It's a sad story,

but it makes sense

because all we are is skin and bones

that weathers away with time.

Forgotten in the dust,

with the seeds of resilience to

renew.

Outgrow.

Replenish.