as i shred these pages

none of it fades

but the sense of control

they’ve held over me does

---

i am no longer a number

instead a person of my own

as i should’ve always been

yet for years couldn’t

---

for the rest of my years

i’ll have been “the sick kid”

still sick too, but i’ll be more

reclaiming status of “person”

---

so many will call my name

not my number like

i’m a product, sitting broken

on a shelf and self hating

---

my scars do not define me

merely help illustrate my tale

tear stained pages aren’t all of me

co-existing with beautiful scenes

---

i’m not my disabilities nor struggles

they are only a part of my full self

and this shredded doctor’s writing

aren’t the font of my story, mine is

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