I am not your tarot cards, your bible, your spirit board, or your skeleton key.

I am not special, I cannot predict what you’re thinking or unlock secrets.

I do not give you ways to believe or plant morals and expectations.

I am only me.


I am the kid who clung to my mother’s sweater in the grocery store.

I am the student seated near the front, constantly drawing space.

I am the person who hid in the library during lunch.

I am the wilting rose in a cheap vase.


I am not your polaroid that you shake to see the fuller picture.

I will open up when I am well and ready.

I am not a toy you can pick up and play with when you are bored.

I am nothing but a cold sore that will fade away; nothing less, nothing more.


I am not your dream catcher, your first pair of shoes, your Monday blues, or your lemonade pitcher.

I can not weave away your fears, but I can try.

I can not compete to the first feeling of something new.

I am not something that makes you appreciate the other days.

I am not refreshing on a summer day, I cannot fight off the burning sun’s rays.


I am the sound of ballpoint pens gliding along paper in an elaborate dance.

I am the books you dropped in the hallway.

I am the feeling you got from your first kiss and the one from your last.

I am the mist of depression that clouds your vision and has you hoping you’ll move on fast.


I am not your needle and thread, your death bed, or your voodoo doll.

I am the smell of gasoline and a pill and a half of Adderall.

Do not assume you know anything, and do not pretend to understand.

Because not many people really know who I am.


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