Here I lie in bed,

writing.

Typing little words 

on the bright screen of my phone. 

I’m under my weighted blanket,

cozy and safe.

I try to write about the world, 

as if I’ve actually lived in it.

What do I know about love? 

Poverty? 

Beating the man?

Nothing. 

But I do know what it feels like to be.

In this moment I am whole.

I am unapologetically myself.

Writing and breathing and thinking original thoughts,

 I am complete.

Though these words may not be anything spectacular, they are mine.

Like the short cropped auburn hair on my head is mine.

Like the acne scars on my chin are mine.

Like the high cheekbones and wide smile on my face are mine.

This poem may never be for anyone but me, 

and I am ok with that

because this poem is mine.