It’s something I always knew.

It’s something we all knew.

We didn’t want to address it.

We didn’t want to face it.

I didn’t want to face it.

The glances I’ll clock.

The sheep of stigma that’ll flock.

The throwing of their rocks.

The quirks they’ll mock.

The rabbit holes of horror…

they’ll simply never stop.

It was me.

It was me!

This whole time, it was me.

I’m no victim.

I’m the killer.

I’m never the substance,

only filler.

The narrative in my head

far surpasses the 

reality of the life I’ve led.

What a concept.

What a threat.

This expectation that I’m vile,

you’re telling me I’ve never met?

What’s more ill?

A diagnosis or

the suppression of my character?

I tell myself what others tell me.

Turns out, it’s only silence,

and those negativities?

Baby, that’s all me.

I’m fundamentally kind.

I’m a rare comedic find.

I’m empathetic and I’m loyal.

My compassion never foils.

I succeed, and I thrive.

I’m consistently praised and recognized.

I’ve been locked in darkness,

yet shine so bright.

My heart was chronically harnessed,

yet it unleashed to Mr. Right.

I’m capable and worthy of love.

An ideology I’d simply never heard of.

This guilt and shame?

For what?

Living in my own brain?

It’s out of my control

and I finally surrender.

I’m no lost cause,

and my life will be filled with splendor.

I may be the villain in someone’s story.

They may judge and fuel their own glory.

No punishment was greater served 

than the one I imposed on myself.

You’re welcome,

but now I’ve found help.

I deserve better and I am better.

I’m no hero to you.

That’s okay.

I’m a hero to myself,

in each and every way.