Bullets Not Breaths

I want to take a moment today to remind people that mental illnesses are just as real and life-altering as physical ailments. I wrote this poem about a year and a half ago, when I was not doing well. I was also especially struggling with the difference - the separation - between how healthy I looked and how terribly sick I felt.

Today, I'm doing so well! My external appearance matches my internal health. I feel confident. But it's been a long, hard fight to get here. A fight that, although can be much easier some days than others, will ultimately never end.

So to those of you fighting an invisible illness... I see you. I feel for you. And I dedicate this poem to you.


Some days
she wishes the bracelet
around her wrist was one of paper
not of metal.
So that, when she raised her fist
into the air
to tell the world 'I survived,'
they'd look at her and know her pride
instead of wondering
what the hell she was shouting for.
Some days
she wishes she could peel off
the scars on her body,
place them like stickers
on the chests of her friends,
so they'd know who hurt her
and who'd helped her
instead, she simply avoids mirrors,
and pretends she's forgotten her pain.
Some days
she wishes your words
were bullets not breaths so that,
when she staggered, cried,
clutched hand to chest,
there would be blood and justification
rather than
judgement, denial, and lies.