Once I was asked how the inner kid inside my soul was doing, and I said they was dead, that kid was murdered. I said that for a while I pareded the corpse around pretending they was alive, but then I had to accept it happened, I had to bury the kid and solve the fucking murder. Then I said I was trying to heal my soul from all that in that moment of my life, but I was still grieving.

I got answered that what I said showed that my inner kid was actually alive.

I’m sorry random man who thinks he’s all that just because he’s a poet and an experiences emotions a little deeper than the average guy, you don’t know what you’re talking about.

I am not a survivor, I am not strong, I am not light nor joyful. I died that night. And birthed a new fucking thing. I am not the same person I was before.

You don’t know me. You see me smiling and dressing in pastel colours, you see me with bright make up and cute dresses. You hear my witty comebacks and my jokes. You watch a happy façade of a person, but it’s hollow inside.

I do not have an inner kid anymore, whatever inhabits my body is not even a person.

I like to joke about being an entity that passes as a person or a ghost. But it’s true. I haven’t felt human in years. I feel like a shell for the horrors I’ve been through, barely alive, craving emotions I’m not sure I can experience anymore. And even if I can, I won’t experience them like I used to, like I could have, if I hadn’t died.

I died that night. I died a little more every day for the following year lugging that corpse around. I died again when I said it out loud and wasn’t believed. I buried that person so long ago I barely remember them.

Survivor uh. What a funny word. I did not survive. The person who experienced it actually died.

I’m something different now.