I am called many things:
a best friend
and the list goes on and on.
The labels weigh on me,
like price tags that determine the prices of things
instead of their true values,
along with instructions, warnings and whatnots.
I guess that’s how we were taught,
to use labels to define ourselves
so we would belong somewhere,
so I would not be the only one
writing with a red pen
in a sea of people using black pens.
I know labels can only do so much,
but once written, they stay forever.
They become you and everything you’re not.
So I took my notepad and started writing.
I can’t trust other people
to write a biography about myself.
They can’t possibly tell what’s unseen:
beneath my skin and clothes,
behind my smiles and glasses—or mascara,
or what’s inside this head of mine.
They can’t write about my struggle
and my suffering
and those nights I spent blaming myself,
wondering why I wasn’t enough,
wondering why I wasn’t like everybody else
in just five short paragraphs.
They would be running out of pages
before they could finish writing about my growth
and my determination
and those days I spent sighing contently to myself
for finally crossing the lines
and breaking free from the have-to’s, suppose to’s, and should’s,
something I should have done a long time ago.
I left a few pages blank on purpose.
There’s still so much to be written, to be told.
Because the moment I stop writing about myself,
someone else will do it.