There was a version of me that never smiled often. She wore baggy shirts and girl-shaped lies. She lowered her voice in public bathrooms. She kept her head down when someone said “ma’am.” It seemed like she hadn’t just flinched down to her ribs.
I had to kill her. Not out of hate, but because I loved her enough to let her go. Because she was a cage wearing ill applied eyeliner.
It was me or her…
If I didn’t bury her, I was going to bury myself. That version of me tried. She tried to be small. To be nice. To be quiet when it hurt. To make everyone else comfortable in rooms that made her sick. She carved apologies into her wrists before I ever picked up a blade.
I took my lighter
And I lit her on fire. She didn’t go easy. She showed up in dreams, stood behind me in the mirror with my father’s eyes. But every time I chose my name, every time I shot up that hormone and felt it bloom behind my lungs, I gave her peace.
She was never meant to carry my name anyway. When I walk into rooms now, with this voice, this back, this heartbeat that stays steady through the siren…
I know I’m alive because I chose to be. I let one version die so another could finally fucking breathe.
If you’ve ever had to bury a version of yourself to survive, I see you. Feel free to share your story in the comments or connect with me through email poeaxtry@gmail.com
