Lyrical poem:
Beneath a sun that warms, not burns,
I walk through grass that does not itch,
its green a gentle hymn underfoot.
The sky, a soft ocean of baby blue,
threaded with pink, orange, purple—
a quiet aurora painted just for me.
Flowers scatter like spilled confetti,
wild, impossible, every color blooming at once.
A willow bends low to greet me,
its arms holding a wooden swing
facing a lake so clear
it mirrors my soul without breaking it.
I sit at its roots,
my back against its ancient heart.
Here, there is no illness.
Here, no ache in my chest,
no storms behind my eyes.
Only stillness. Only breath. Only me.
But then the voice calls me back.
Reality returns like a door slammed.
And the world is sharp again,
its teeth in my skin,
its weight on my lungs.
I open my eyes and cry
because I do not want this life
where joy is only borrowed,
where happiness is a bright balloon
always slipping from my grasp.
I didn't ask for this.
I was a child.
Now I am a body carrying fire under my skin,
a heart that bruises too easily.
So I go back,
headphones on, eyes closed,
back to the willow, back to the lake,
praying if I stay long enough
it will stop being pretend.
Slam poetry:
Close your eyes, they said.
Find your happy place, they said.
And I did.
I built a world out of light and grass,
painted skies with my bare hands,
made a sun that didn't scorch me,
a breeze that didn't sting.
I gave myself flowers,
I gave myself a tree,
I gave myself a swing,
a lake clear enough to show me
who I could've been
if pain hadn't found me first.
And for one second,
I was free.
But then—
"open your eyes."
Like a command, like a verdict.
And reality hit me in the teeth.
This world.
This diagnosis.
This curse I didn't ask for.
I was a child.
I was a child.
I WAS A CHILD.
Tell me how that's fair.
Tell me how I'm supposed to wake up every day
and pretend my skin isn't on fire,
pretend my bones aren't splintering
under the weight of my own feelings.
You say you understand.
You've been there.
But you don't.
You haven't.
You've never felt pain so loud
it drowns out your pulse.
You've never been burned alive
from the inside.
You've never been skinned
by your own emotions.
And yet you expect me to live.
To wake up.
To try.
To smile.
To wait for "better"
like it's some bus that's just running late.
Do you know what that hope costs?
Do you know what it takes
to keep breathing for other people
when you're already drowning?
So yeah, I crawl back into bed.
Headphones on.
Eyes closed.
Back to my willow tree,
back to my lake.
Because it's the only place
I don't feel like I'm dying.
And maybe if I stay there long enough
it won't just be a happy place.
It'll be the real one.
And this one—
this cruel one—
will fade like a bad dream.