Trying to be someone

When I was little I thought only I had the skill to speak to stuffed animals. 

I thought pumpkins grew into carriages.

And I thought when I turned 18 my parents were going to lock me in a tower and hope for the best. 

I used to believe there was something living under my bed. 

And I used to believe love kept my family safe in an unbreakable bubble.

 

I used to believe. 

But then I grew up. 

And I've kissed more boys than I wish that I have and not nearly as many as I would like to. 

I've fallen down too many times for bruises to keep up. 

And I've learned there's a lot more than monsters hiding under my bed. 

I spend most days picking puzzle pieces up off the ground. 

I talk too much 

And I don't smile enough 

And I try to listen carefully, but my ears keep getting clogged with reality. 

See, I'm trying to figure out what kind of a person I am. 

And all the magazines tell me it's about the kind of clothes you wear.

Or the way you talk.  

And what you say. 

And the type of stuff you use to cover it all up with. 

But my grandmother never covered things up. 

She played on the piano until her fingers gave out. 

She promised to call me beautiful until her heart stopped, even then she said she'd be whispering it in the wind to me. 

And when the darkness won she never once told me to brush it off and forget about it. 

She'd tell me to wave to it. 

Because there's always something hidden in our scars waving back at us. 

 

And I'm trying to figure out why this heart beat of mine falls out of rhythm so much. 

And why my lungs get caught when I inhale. 

And why we can't touch stars. 

I guess that proves I'm human. 

I guess that shows I'm trying. 

A human with too many rips and tears in her heart.

Because we tear our hearts with sharp words and sharp people.

We scratch our hearts like we scratch our heads. 

Lost. 

Confused. 

Embarrassed. 

When all we need is just a spoon full of endurance. 

And we carve our hearts onto school desks. 

Trying to be remembered 

along with the rest of the "I was here"'s.

Trying to make something out of ourselves. 

Trying to be someone.