An Encyclopaedia of my Own Life

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It’s been a stretch of strange days,

where nothing fits but the word weird.

I write it down like a nervous tick,

hoping ink can make it clear.

I label myself a little too quick;

flop, fraud, failure, fake.

Like misery’s a comfort blanket

I never meant to take.

He said,

“I think you like it — being miserable.

Because it’s easier.”

And maybe… perhaps,

that’s what hurt the most.

Not because it’s true.

But because I don’t know if it is.

What he doesn’t see

is the weight of waking up sad

and still showing up.

Of carrying grief in the folds of my skin,

seven months apart,

two funerals within.

Sometimes my mind drifts

to the letter I wrote,

to a book not yet real,

but full of pages like this one.

A tribute.

A testament.

To the ones who made me.

To the parts of me still being made.

I don’t know if I’m a writer.

I don’t know if I’m healed.

But I write.

And I feel.

And maybe that’s enough

to fill the spine

of a paperback diary —

an encyclopaedia of my own life,

written slowly, until my hands can no longer try.

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