“Somewhere Along the Way, I Disappeared”
I remember the first time I realized
there was more than one version of me—
not because I wanted there to be,
but because there had to be.
Because every room I walked into
felt like a test I didn’t study for.
If I spoke too loud,
they looked at me like I was breaking something—
“Why are you yelling?”
So I softened my voice,
shrunk it down,
folded it into something quieter—
and suddenly
“Why don’t you ever speak up?”
So I tried again.
Careful this time.
Measured.
Like every word had to pass inspection
before it left my mouth.
But when I finally said what I thought,
really said it—
they laughed.
“Nobody asked.”
And that one stuck.
So I started keeping things in.
Locked behind my teeth,
hidden in the spaces between
“I'm fine”
and “it’s nothing.”
But silence has a weight to it.
And people notice.
“Why don’t you care?”
they ask—
as if quiet means empty,
as if stillness means I feel nothing at all.
So I tried to explain.
God, I tried.
I took everything inside me—
every overthinking spiral,
every feeling that didn’t have a name yet—
and I laid it out, messy and honest,
right in front of them.
And they stepped back.
Not because they didn’t hear me—
but because they did.
“That’s crazy.”
Crazy.
Like my mind is something to be afraid of.
Like my truth is something to laugh at.
So I started editing.
Rewriting myself in real time.
When I laughed too loud,
I covered my mouth.
“Calm down.”
When I didn’t react,
I forced a smile.
“What’s wrong with you?”
When I wrote what everyone felt,
they called it shallow.
When I wrote what I felt,
they said
“it’s not that deep.”
So tell me—
where exactly am I supposed to exist?
In the version of me that fits in?
Because that one feels fake.
Or the version that tells the truth?
Because that one’s “too much.”
And somewhere between
being too loud
and not loud enough,
too real
and not real in the right way,
I stopped recognizing myself.
Because every time I thought
“this is me”—
someone corrected it.
Adjusted it.
Rejected it.
Until I became a collection
of almosts.
Almost acceptable.
Almost understood.
Almost enough.
And now—
I stand in rooms
and I don’t know which version of me
to bring inside.
The quiet one?
The loud one?
The easy one?
The honest one?
Because no matter which one I choose,
it’s only a matter of time
before it’s wrong again.
So now—
I don’t always say anything at all.
I take my feelings
and hide them in places
no one thinks to look.
I close my door
like it’s the only thing
that knows how to keep a secret.
I sit on the edge of my bed
and let everything build
until it’s too loud to hold—
and then I scream
where no one can hear me.
Empty rooms.
Quiet streets.
Inside my own chest
where the sound never really leaves.
Because it’s safer that way—
to break in private
than be misunderstood in public.
And I’m tired.
Tired of reshaping myself
like I’m made of something temporary.
Tired of shrinking, stretching, bending—
just to fit into spaces
that were never meant for me.
And the worst part is—
I don’t know what I sound like anymore
when I’m not trying to be understood.
I don’t know who I am
without the audience.
I just know
somewhere along the way
I disappeared
trying to become
someone
everyone else
could keep.
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125,020 Literary Works • 672,734 Reviews
(Note: I will probably be rambling unclearly here because since you spoke from the heart I must answer you from the heart, too, and my heart is a mess, so my review will be too. Update: I unchecked the review button to prove to you that I am speaking from my heart and not just to grab points. This will be a comment. And yeah I got possessed by passion for a bit here. And I am probably forgetting a lot here..)
Firstly, Jannah, you are talented. It takes skill and courage to pull out your heart and put it inside a poem like you did, and though this poem is very long, you kept me here on my chair, taking in every word.
I was asked if I can relate to this, and the truth is that I don't think so: you and I are as different as night and day. I am a human cat and I stay true to myself to the point it's to a fault. I am furious, always furious, and maybe, maybe I am destroying myself in my own fury.
I don't know how to describe you but I'll try. You are someone who is trying to fit in, to be loved. But it isn't working. And you are a sun. From what I hear, they look at you like one: only in frustration and anger. When you are strong, they can't stand to look at you, and when you are weaker, they complain.
Please don't try to become a saint for them. All the saints are dead, after all.
We are, again, as different as night and day. But the picture you painted with your poem is so vivid and so clear that I can see what you feel. I don't think it is what you feel, so I probably don't relate to you, but for you I feel anger. They dared to reject your heart? Your very soul? I may not be the same as you but that does not mean that I can't scream for you, with you, does it? So I will. I'll scream with you. Nothing I say will probably be of any help to you or heal you, but know that I scream for you and with you.
And I don't know if you'd like it and you don't have to if you don't want to, but here's a tip from me: listen to some metal. This sounds weird, but it's actually kinda calming (at least to me) since you can have someone else screaming for you, meaning you can calm down for a while.
And here's a shred of hope for you: through writing this poem you've proved that you are (still) someone. A poetess, to be specific. And a talented and kind one (you are kind. That is another thing that you are. You are desperately kind, walking the path of pain. Alive saint.), at that. Take the title, dear poetess, and wear it like a flower crown. No one can take it away from you now, not now that you've already shown yourself to the world.
No matter what they say, you will still be the poetess. One who captures the universe and weaves it into words.
So raise your head, poetess! You may have lost your own self for a while, but that just means you'll have to search for a bit. And if you can't find her back, that isn't a bad thing either. Then you'll just have to become who you want to be. It will be hard, but there will surely be happiness.
So raise your head, and find your own self, or happiness.
I will be waiting/screaming for you, poetess.
OMG Darlet you are so kind. Like I never seen someone who writes like you. Your words are so kind I can't wait to read it to my sister. She needs this. Her life has been a mess she cries every day. She needs to hear these words thanks a lot you are literally the best human being for writing this.
Tell me what she thinks about it!
okay
Hi, okay. I wanted to say that this is unfortunately an experience that some experience, myself and you included, and I wanted to say you're not alone. You managed to articulate it so clearly. I can feel the emotion pouring off when the pacing increases in this extract:
"Or the version that tells the truth?
Because that one’s “too much.”
And somewhere between
being too loud
and not loud enough,
too real
and not real in the right way,
I stopped recognizing myself.
Because every time I thought
“this is me”—
someone corrected it.
Adjusted it.
Rejected it.
Until I became a collection
of almosts.
Almost acceptable.
Almost understood.
Almost enough."
You also used repetition to seal the deal. I hope you find your voice again, let's talk if ever. xox
(This may not make much sense but I'm gonna try to make it make sense) I see your pain, darling Blanco Rose. I feel your pain. I want you to know that there are many who stand there with you and feel your pain. You are not alone anymore as you have the amazing people on this platform and your family irl. If you ever want to put your mask down and try discovering yourself again, I am here if you ever want to chat.