This poem is a reflection. A moment of time in my past in the exact moment of finally understanding the importance of valuing myself, trusting myself, and listening to my nervous system. It was a moment where I took accountability for all my frustrations when it comes to my own infamous love-life. Because awareness alone is not fruitful without recognizing patterns and choosing to change them when necessary.
I wrote this poem so that I could always go back to this moment to remember what it felt like when I betray my own beliefs. This is not about anyone specific, it’s merely an amalgamation of feelings and patterns that I return to when I don’t follow my own prinicples.
Art isn’t always beautiful. Sometimes it’s painful. But pain can be transformative—it can drive change. I am in the process of restructuring my nervous system, so please, I unapologetically urge you to excuse me, as I release my pain.
Anxiously Alive
I’ve been running from my writing.
Hiding.
Too scared to face what’s truly inside me.
My power feels taken—
core shaken to a point where
I look,
but don’t feel the same.
A case of mistaken identity
born from anxious actions
and internal shame.
So I run.
Hiding in the shadows of my smile,
and in the sways of my hips.
Anxious not to rupture,
as compromise overflows
and my principles crumble—
blow by blow.
And then I explode.
My soul starts to feel like it’s on fire
as I surrender all my power.
I would bleed from my eyes
and weep from my thighs
as a “love” that’s not Love
trespasses where it never resides.
I let my loneliness consume me,
slipping into a world ruled by anxiety,
letting abandonment issues doom me.
Falling back into a reality I know too well—
yearning to be seen,
questioning if I am enough.
Mistaking love for lust,
believing foolishly that breadcrumbs of survival
are acts of trust.
I start giving pieces of myself away—
crossing my own lines,
crushing my own spine,
snuffing out my light
once bright and untamed.
Waking every day, music loud,
with self-betrayal on replay
just to make you remain.
But when the music fades
and the fire goes cold,
I look around, anxious,
and there’s no one to hold.
So the trauma I called “old”
reawakens, seeping back in—
and I’m walking myself back
to where I always begin.
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