I am a ballroom.

I’m a student. I am currently in the middle of my studies.
I study religion. I study Christianity specifically. I read a lot about trauma both in and outside of class. There’s so much that my classes do not and will not cover.
I feel heavy and lost.
I feel like my voice does not matter.
I feel like my voice is lost in an ocean and no one is watching to see if the bubbles are coming up.
I don’t know the impact of my voice.
I don’t know if this studying will pay off.
I am told my voice is a gift, but their lives do not reflect that the gift is received.

I have a sexuality.
I am desexualized often.
I want things.
I am hypersexualized often.
My wants are not considered.
I’ve fought hard for myself.
I’m a mess. In therapy for more than 7 years.
I am told I am a saint.
I am told I am a problem.
I am told I am intimidating, “too” good, by people who haven’t lifted a finger to move their own hearts.
I am not a place for cheap compliments.
I am not a place for flattery.

I don’t know how to survive the world as it is.
I don’t know how to survive this emotional landscape.
I don’t know how to survive without my friends. The ones who recognize and respect my autonomy. The ones who know how brave I am, but do not leave me alone in my courage.

I want more spaces where I can feel everything and it is not a problem.
I am not a place to be fixed.
I am not a place to look at so that you don’t look at you.
I am tired of self-reflecting in a world that doesn’t self-reflect.
I am tired of hearing “be yourself” in a world that doesn’t value authenticity.

I am a ballroom.
I am a place to waltz in.

withdrawn type

(from January 2nd, 2020)


I am crying out of me
18 years (give and take a few)
of grief for having no choice
over my coming and goings,
having been trapped and made captive to be my mother’s extension,
and being beaten into her image.
Maybe the tears will free me
to make a little more space for myself.
My tears will help me find a sacred room of my own choosing
with a door that I myself control.
Maybe the tears will save me from
a shriveled body,
tense, small, curled and bent with
and resentment.
Everytime the anger rises,
I ask
“What’s still hurts here?”
Instead of revealing a mask
the truth trickles out.
Then, after, I watch the last drop land
I stand up, take a step forward,
making for myself the life I can still live.
I remind myself,
I can do that again
And will need to, again,
the next time the tide of anger comes.

– withdrawn type

(Knowing how warm my tears have kept me
I try not to apologise for crying
for they have kept me from mutating
into a tragic nightmare.
In my most peaceful dreams,
Jekyll and Hyde are friends).