This is a personal post that I wrote while crying. [Poetry Archive] might offer something nicer.
My title of author means nothing.
That’s part of why I don’t think it fits. It’s more I’m boasting. I turned my imagination into a story for others to read. A story people like. It’s more than just my boast, but… it just feels like my pride is acting up.
No amount of intelligence or skill makes me matter.
No amount of beauty does either. Especially since that just disappears anyway.
The only thing that matters in this world is how much money you have. How rich you are.
I’m not rich. I’m the opposite. I get free health insurance through the state. Do you know how little you have to make to earn that? I don’t have a car. My computer is cracked. I should get a new one, but I don’t have that type of money. I’ve gone hungry because…
I could write a thousand poems. I could publish hundreds of stories. I can make people laugh and cry. I do. But none of that matters. None of my abilities matter. My ability to help others only extends until money is required.
I have none.
I’m a penniless beggar. You just don’t know about it. I’m not homeless. I’m tempted to be, because my option is live with my toxic family. The family who said “I hope you succeed at killing yourself.” I’m staying so Cyro has shelter. That’s it.
I have such a huge heart. I love so readily. I fall so hard so fast. I picked loving GD, because he’s a complete fantasy for me. An impossible. No chance at all. To stop me from falling for anyone else.
Because I have nothing of value. I’m the worthless penniless beggar.
A heart of gold
A pen of skill
A mind of knowledge
Means nothing in this world.
Michael’s death is half of what I grieve right now. It’s half of why I’m having nightmares and tears and struggling.
The other half is knowing I have no chance of being a mother and having a real family and being true to myself.
No amount of Nugget cuddles will fix this.
I’m sorry for my sorrow. I just figured I’ll let you know if you wanted to know. Why I am struggling so hard right now. Why I am crying my heart out. Why I feel so trapped.
Death sounds so much easier than begging.
Life is so complicated. I don’t like it.
[A Letter] talks about the Michael side of this grief.
Add: I have written a post like this once every few months. When I sink at the reminder nothing feels to have changed.
That’s not true. I’m not where I need to be. I’m not there yet. But I’m much further along than I was. There’s progress. I can’t give up.
Check out my [Store] or buy a book at your favorite online book seller:
I love you. Thanks for reading and being here with me. I just need to keep climbing, and I’ll reach the top of the mountain. It’s not that far if I think about how far I’ve already come.