Real Talk: I Never Planned on Living This Long

Here I am. I'm telling the truth.
The truth?
This kid is not alright.
The truth is I'm alive.
I'm alive. But I'm not the only one.
So the truth is: I'm not different.

I paint but I'm not artsy. I drive a hybrid but I'm not a hippie. I'm blonde but I'm not a cheerleader. I'm not a goth or a prep or a skater. I'm not some treasurer or co-captian. I'm not gay and out and proud. I'm not that kid from Sri Lanka, not a triplet, not a drunk, genius, or slut. I'm not even one of those super Mormon girls pretending to love everyone.

Pretending pretending pretending

I'm nothing. There's nothing worth looking at here.

I'm sneaky and get caught, I'm nice and faking it, I'm drunk but I'm not drinking. I probably agree with liars all the time. I'm just wandering around in search of a really nice mental hospital. But no one will let me in.

They don't know I'm battling these things inside of me. They don't understand how hard I've been trying to keep it all together. All they can see is the expertly painted mask that I have plastered on my face.

That's all anyone sees.
Anyone but him.

And I'm in love with him, thought I'd throw that in. This was not meant to be about love because I am sick of all the shit about love. Love love love. But this is now about love because everything comes down to love. How can the world love even fit in this mouth that tells so many lies? At least lips are pretty. Can lips be pretty?

We're swimming, but not in the lake. We're swimming through life. We're swimming in this life and I think I'm drowning. I'm drowning in this sea of supposed good new. I drown when I look in your eyes. But I like your eyes. Your eyes are my poison and I've been frantically staring at them all along. But this damn drowning makes me feel alive so I'm not going to look away. How does the word ALIVE even begin to explain this? Alive doesn't explain it. Alive can't explain it. But maybe love can. Maybe love can explain everything. But the word LOVE doesn't even fit in my mouth, which we already talked about and hey, I'm repeating myself again. Will you please just let me into your really nice mental hospital?

Of course not.
Butterfly you.

The things that keep happening to me appear to be a work of fiction. But this is not fiction. This is my life. And this kid is not alright.

I'm not alright because life's a bitch.
I decided this when everything shoved me down that hill--while pointing and laughing.

And when I finally stood up, my boots were untied and my hair was ruffled. That's when I realized it.

Life IS a bitch. But you. YOU are not.
You're not and I chose you. I chose you before I knew of your suffering, before I knew of your strength. And my bitchy life isn't so bitchy, because I still have it all and it's pretty bitchin' compared to you.

You have nothing. But me. You'll always have me.

Because life's always a bitch. And this is our life. So this is the story that isn't a story. Because life IS a bitch. But we're not alone. And hey, life's still a bitch. But at least we're alive.


My name is Kat Stratford.
And I just want to be in a really nice mental hospital.

So this is posted pretty late, but here it is. Real talk. Poetry slam thing. I can't believe I read this in front of all of you. Sorry about the swearing. Okay I'm not sorry at all but I've been working on being nice. Well nice-ish.