This poem is a reflection—a snapshot of a past version of me, captured in the exact moment I began to understand the importance of valuing myself, trusting myself, and listening to my nervous system. It marks the point where I took accountability for the patterns behind my frustrations, especially in my own infamous love life. Because awareness alone is not enough; it only becomes powerful when we recognize our patterns and choose to change them.
I wrote this poem as a way to return to that moment—to remember what it feels like to betray my own beliefs. This isn’t about anyone specific. It’s an amalgamation of emotions and recurring patterns I confront when I stray from my own principles.
Art isn’t always beautiful. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable. Sometimes it hurts. But pain can be transformative—it can be the very force that drives change. I am in the process of rebuilding, of retraining my nervous system. So allow me the space to do that—unapologetically—as I heal.
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 getting fed breadcrumbs of survival
are acts of building 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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