by Rhea Melina
When I was young I wanted to get noticed
I would pour
my heart out to strangers
and spill my art all over the streets
and scream on stage, paint
in alleys like I owned them, strut
down isles of stores
modeling on that laminate runway
my no fucks to give
and I got noticed everywhere I went
I got all the attention I could ask for and more
until I was on the run
and in order to survive I stuffed
myself deep inside my pockets
I ran and hid and ran and hid and
ducked and buried and knelt and dug
my fingernails will never come clean nor grow right
I’m alone most of the time but
I feel like I’m always being watched
I got noticed
like a flame in the night
I got seen
like a moving target
in broad daylight
and 24/7 I was unsafe
I was unsafe I was unsafe
I don’t want to complain
I’ve been righteously trained
to focus on gratitude
like if I tell you all my sob story
a great guilt will wash over all of us
as if my shame will become your shame
as if my disease will spread
and it will be
All My Fault
“Just be happy you made it out alive”
“Just be happy you made it out alive”
People say that to me
But to what degree is it healthy
to act as though my survival
is not a total fucking miracle?
Raped and left for dead again
I've been hiding like I don't want them
to know I woke up the next morning
and drank my coffee as usual
I’ve since been hiding
in the grind, working 9-5 and dumbing
down my energy
so they won’t see me
I been hiding, grinding coffee
the night before and barely sleeping
chock-full of anxiety but smiling
and knocking one back
but I don’t let down my guard
Trying to stay safe
Trauma got me in a cage
I don’t know what happened
Because yesterday I just woke
up and wanted again to be noticed
to be seen
to be acknowledged for who I am:
a fucking miracle
not because I survived
but because sometimes I still feel alive
and correct me if I’m wrong but
I think I’m glowing