Me, a poem, 26 March 2017

I am turning seventeen in 10 days.

And it is so scary for me to see how I have changed, and not changed, in the past year, from the friends with whom I play,

Well, I said in the application to this school that I have a wide wide circle of friends, and that I am so outgoing I can blend in pretty much every party,

I sound so hypocritical to me.

To the type of music I listen day by day, I used to be this emo kid listening to alternatives, but no, I have so much energy I need to scream and shout, but no, reggae is all I need, but no, eventually I realize I’ve got only a couple of songs from mainstream,

“So tell my friends that I’ll be over here,

Oh oh oh here, oh oh oh here, oh oh oh”

And now I am into poetry? Oh my gosh, are you crazy, are you mad?

I said to myself while watching Alex Dang performing “What Kind of Asian Are You?”, because I suck so much at creative thinking and writing, and after a night of binge-watching Button Poetry I am writing my very first poem.

My very first poem and I have no fucking clue of what I am supposed to do with it? Don’t you have any problem with what I am writing because I do, I really do.

Yesterday I was feeling right to sit back and finish a draft blog I intended to post on Valentines.

Guess what? I, still, did not finish it. I don’t even like blogs, but I found myself writing them over the summer, over here and probably this journey would not last until I realize social media is too much for this grandma.

Three hundred words in half an hour. I cannot even write this fast for my global politics essays, which I know I should, because my teachers say I should and because I need to stuff more words, more words, more words into my works or else, the comments would show that they are “a bit short though”.

Yes, I just repeat “more words” three times. I learned it from Neil Hilborn from the Button Poetry marathon yesterday, as I climb up to Mount Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

No, I am not obsessed with number, though I check the calendar if today is the thirteenth and if so, can I not take any tests, because they would not end up well enough, that is what I’m sure of.

But I try to get the number of green Haribos equal to the number of orange Haribos equal to the number of red Haribos equal to the number of white Haribos equal to the number of yellow Haribos, as I proudly tell my friends.

Green, orange, red, white, yellow – those were put in alphabetical order, exactly like how I arrange and alter all of my stuff so that it looks fine, no, perfect.

And this skin, I don’t want to touch it. And those nails, I don’t want to bite them. And these beautiful long black strands of hair, hell no, why would I want to pull them off?

Dermatillomania, Onychophagia, Trichotillomania – I don’t want to know what they mean, but my face looks so disappointingly imperfect that I have the urge to fix it, but it just gets worse. I learn to paint my nails just because I was buying more time for my polished nails not being bitten. My mom thought I was bald once and she took me to a doctor, but it turned out that I did it all to myself.

But I promise you, the present me is not all about OCDs. I start eating vegetables and asking people “Hey, how are you doing?”. I start my Instagram feed all over again and it looks kind of pretty, no? Hey fellows, follow me at tonnu.mykhanh! (:

And at this very moment, I am feeling happy. I slept well, and though I haven’t got much of schoolwork done, somehow I am feeling happy. And though I know I shouldn’t place my feelings above all, I am feeling happy, and that is how I want to feel my entire life. So no, I don’t know anything and no matter if I am seventeen or seventy, I hope this happiness stays with me till the very end.


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