You Only See, the Happy, Sane, Me

I was eleven when I wrote my first poem.
My first poem was about love,
So were quite a few of my poems to follow.
I loved those poems, so did my grandma.
She told me that I was wise beyond my years.
I loved the sound of that,
It made me feel great.
After those first few poems,
I decided to write about happiness.
I showed my grandma those poems.
She liked them, of course.
I, on the other hand, hated them,
But I didn't understand, why.
Why did I hate the poems that my grandma loved?
Why did I hate the words that were coming out of me?
It took me years to figure out why I hated those poems.
It took me years to figure out why I hated the words that came out of me.
The reason that I hated those poems, my words, so much, was because I didn't understand them.
I didn't connect with them.
The words that came out of me were not at all how I felt.
The words that came out of me are not at all how I feel now.
I was trying to write about happiness, when all I felt inside was sadness.
I was trying to write about the one emotion that I have not truly felt, since, I don't know when.
When I was fourteen, I wrote my first sad poem.
I loved that poem, because I understood it.
I loved that poem because I understood the words that came out of me.
I knew how it felt to cry yourself to sleep.
I knew how it felt to pretend to be sick, just to get out of a meal, even when it was your favorite meal, hoping that, somehow, if you skipped that one meal, you would be skinny.
I knew how it felt to be so sad, so lost, so out of place, in your own life, in your own body, that you would rather be dead, than live another day.
I am almost eighteen, I have written so many poems these past four years.
A few have been about love, maybe one about happiness, but, for the most part, they have been about sadness.
I still understand sadness, depression, hopelessness, better than any other emotions.
I still cry myself to sleep some nights.
I skip more meals than I did then, still hoping, that maybe, just maybe, if I skip some meals, I will be skinny.
I still feel so sad, so lost, so out of place, in my own life, in my own body, that I would rather be dead, than live one more fucking day on this earth.
But you only read my love poems.
You only read my happy poems.
You only see, the happy, sane, me.[/font]