Young Writers Society

Ship of Theseus

I am the ship of Theseus,
rotting in the ocean air.
Fix me piece by piece
until no one can say if I'm the same ship.

What makes a scar a part of your skin?
It's just a historical site of a massacre.
How many scars does it take
until I can't be the same girl anymore?

So rebuild me piece by piece,
I'll watch the skin knot into place.
And each shiny mark will remind me,
I'm further and further from who I used to be.

Why would the ship of Theseus want to be the same
as the one cracking with mold?
Maybe I don't want to be me anymore.
Let the scars pave the way to a new identity.

But I'm afraid the rot is deeper than the wood,
and all the scars can't hide it.
Maybe it's the disease that makes me,
and I will never outbuild it.

I See You in My Mirror

I see my whole family tree in the mirror.
What is a person but repetition?
If I was art,
I would be traced from someone more complex than me.
And I see the shadow of the depth in every reflection.

From my father,
I got the way I squeeze my thumb,
or the way I pace when I'm on the phone.

From my mother,
the way I cackle when I really laugh,
or I sway when I stand.

From my stepfather,
the way I squint my eyes when I'm confused,
or how I don't like spending money.

From my stepmother,
the way I use nicknames like pet names,
or the way I scoff to show I'm joking.

From my father,
the fear of being seen.
From my mother,
the desire to swallow down the pain.

From my stepfather,
the way my hands shake when I'm angry.
From my stepmother,
the way I push people away on instinct.

What part of me could be severed from them?
What part of the reflection is mine?
My mother's nose,
my father's eyes,
my great-great-great grandmother's hair?

What stops me from being the same as them?
Losing myself to the first hands that hold me?
Calling my bruises heirlooms?
Choking my children?
Smoking to cope?
Living life divorce to divorce?

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree,
but maybe I am an acorn buried by squirrels,
or a dandelion seed carried away by the wind.
Maybe I have:
my father's kindness and warmth,
and my mother's dedication and quiet strength.
Or maybe I'm a sum greater than its parts.

I smile at the faces I find in the glass,
and they smile back at me.
Maybe I am inseparable from them,
and I'll be the one to rescue them from here.

I Made it End

i think this is my favorite trope
the good guys win at the end of the day
that maybe there is hope

i stand atop this jagged slope
finally i'm here to stay
i think this is my favorite trope

i've learned to see around the smoke
it's that thought that makes me sway
that maybe there is hope

i made the space the cope
and learned how to walk away
i think this is my favorite trope

i cut away my ropes
isn't this such a pretty display
that maybe there is hope

maybe i wasn't born to be broke
i've always had a say
i think this is my favorite trope
that maybe there is hope