To speak of myself is to speak of a soul without a home.

Which ones of my personalities should I introduce first? The one that’s mentally deranged, yet logical? Or the one that is at times nearly invisible, yet so intense and slovenly?

Or maybe you should meet the me that is enormously strong, and will face anything. The me whom is seen as a devil for I surround myself with only darkness. But deeply, this me loves beauty and light. This me is in need of beauty and light.

I should like for you to hear of my childhood. I should like to state how happy these years were, and how I wish to go back to these days, but I simply can’t you see, for I suffer from what you may call severe memory lost. The younger I can go back to is the age twelve. Still twelve is a gift, not remembering at all would be worst possibly.

Birth was giving to me in a place call Haiti, Port-au-prince. Lived a fine life there for a brief amount of years, and then I began to yearn to leave my country, for I felt something was missing. Father decided to bring me to the U.S, Washington to be precise.

Lived uncomfortably there for a brief as well, but that something was still missing. I moved again to New York, Beverly something. With my mother’s family I resigned as for father, he went to Florida, and stayed with friends.

Nearly a few months later, things began to unravel. These “family” members of mine began to show their true colors and to be honest I was not impressed. I called father and told him I desired no more to endure this.

He moved to New York himself, and got for the two of us alone, a small apartment in a quiet neighborhood. With nothing we moved in. The owner, living in the apartment next door provided us with sheets and much more. Grateful is how I should express my feelings for her. For weeks, she sent plates of food over. She welcomed me into her home. “Anytime.” She said.

This woman had a wonderful daughter as well, named Keshia. We spent hours together, watching television, talking, well, she’d speak as I listened and nodded. She and I would have been best friends by now, if only I wanted to, if only I tried, if only I cared.

I enrolled in Marine Park, a junior high school not too far from the apartment. But I still had to take the bus each morning. Better than having to take two train, and bus, I guess. The kids definitely did not throw me a welcome party. I got close to a few; rather I shall say a few got close to me. Little by little I thought, just maybe, this might be it. Finally, maybe I’d find what I felt was missing since birth. But it wasn’t it. I have yet to find that something.

Now in high school, and I mean this very moment. I’m in a room where I should be studying, but I’m writing this instead. When I filled out my applications five years ago, I applied for to a smattering of private high schools in my area.

My current school accepted me, and many of my friends, well the ones I spoke to. So I wasn’t either happy or sad, I guess I simply obliged. This is rather odd that I recall this so vividly. I remember the first time I walked the walls of my school, the picture id day, then the second time, the first day of high school. It was crowded and all madness.

Now in my room, having a few thoughts. I believe I may be mad. This is not something that I am pleased to admit, but I feel it must be stated. If I’m not mad, then what am I?

My mind is playing billions of tricks on me. It does not let me think for me, but at times I find a way to escape. These are the hours I think clearly, minutes rather, for it never lets me escape for too long. Well, have you ever experienced this feeling? You are lucky to have not. Enduring this, is only capable to be done by the strongest of us.

I realize that I have not yet mention my name, but I also realize that it doesn’t quite matter if I do. It doesn’t matter that I even write this, nor if I stop this very second. Would my next words be pondered over if I were to not write them? Probably not, for I am simply me. Me, a young unknown female. I am seen nearly everyday, but none know me really. It is why I am the stranger they know.

I enjoy writing. One of the very few things I seem to still have a passion for. I’d love to state that I am a publish author, but sadly this is not yet the case. I have acknowledge the fact that my being so different doesn’t really work in my benefit, if I want to be an author. Authors have to write in a way to connect, with their readers. In a way to be accepted, by their readers.

But I wanted nothing but this. I loved this. I love it still. I find it to be quite peaceful, safe. The only place I feel I belong is in my books. I need this.

I have been thinking, well, this can’t go on forever; this has to come to an end. I speak of this story, not my life, though that would be pleasurable. Thus, how will this end?

This is the hard part. How do I end a bio of a person whom is still alive? Someone clearly has to die. And it very much must be the novelist. But this is not yet the case thus I, the poet simply say The End.