Soul-worn (poem)

a poem about wearing myself down trying to be someone "more palatable" when I should be building myself up by simply being me

Chihiro (the protagonist of the Studio Ghibli film Spirited Away) with a defeated facial expression, her chin resting on crossed hands. The background is a mix of a dragon and branch with flowers. There’s also a broken heart with a bandage on it in the upper left corner.

Worn down to the bone—no, soul.

The perpetual feeling state

when continually told

“Do as your told”

and I do as I’m told:

I contort and I fold

myself into boxes

sterile and cold.

I smile and smile

and keep smiling, hoping I appear good—

approachable,

human enough,

not an alien.

“You think too much. Stop!”

So I stop

but don’t stop

to think that over-analyzing

to others

is analyzing just the right amount

for me.

“You daydream too much. Stop!”

So I stop

but don’t stop

to think that living in the clouds

helps me live in the now

with more conviction.

“You’re being too sensitive. Stop!”

So I stop

but don’t stop

to think that suppressing my “too much”

doesn’t actually mean I stopped

anything at all.

It just auto-builds and builds

until I don’t know what to do with these

leaning towers of

BIG FEELINGS

so I shove them down further,

compress them like accordions

until my body aches

here, there, everywhere

and I have no more golden spoons1

to feel my own feelings

with the breadth and depth

that they’re meant to be felt.

Worn down to the soul—I feel it in my bones (all of them)

that daily death isn’t the way I want to live out these days.

Daily daze.

Why? So the masses can think I’m okay,

maybe even good,

not an alien…

No. I refuse to allow my true form

to enter an early grave

in the name of others’ comfort,

not my comfort in my own skin.