The Bastards Learned How To SwimMature

This is a poem about the search for self in our submerged adolescent dreamland seen through beer-goggles and pixelated self-consciousness.

"I tried to drown my sorrows, but the bastards learned how to swim."
-Frida Kahlo

Hiding behind a shot of vodka
Or a computer screen
I scream.
And by I, I don't mean the girl, boy, or "it" you see, I mean me.
The one I buried deep within the fortifications of my façade
It's like the first time I realized I was
From the rest that I wasn't
Like the rest
That, as my mother said, no one could ever love me but she,
Certainly not me.

But I
See the superficial expressions of affections
Through the binoculars of anti-social media
In which I try to define myself by beautiful photos
Like the ones Emily B. from my third grade class 
To whom I'd always come in second would post.
Or I
Drink a Rum and Coke and 
Dance in the kitchen to 
Songs I'm ashamed to name.

I step on stage and I'm naked.
I want to wear the face that the whiskey would give me
And hide behind the liquid confidence that would hit me
But I would slur,
And these words require clarity.

Even I don't know how I feel.
I've been spewing lies and social constructions
That only contribute to my own destruction 
And I just want to see what's here.
What's now.
What's me.

The End

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