This Girl – curled in a bed, a friends- not her own. She is littered with the remnants of this mornings breakfast; wrappers from crisps, cheese biscuits, chocolate bars and apple Danish; the only things she could stomach, the only thing she could find at the closest shop- the only one she is confident enough to go to.

This girl still wears the clothes she wore and slept in yesterday, with hair like tumbleweed because 2 hours were spent combing the matted mess that had been forming for 2 weeks. No make up, and crumbs peppering her torso; bedraggled barely hints at the chaos.

This girl hasn’t been to college in 3 days despite the pervading sense of shame that won’t leave her be.

“Useless… Fuck up… No Good at anything… May as well give up now”
The negativity courses through her mind, ears, throat, until her heart speaks self hate with every beat, until she wishes, above all, that if she cant end it all, could she be someone else?

But she is someone else.

This girl is not me.
This is not me.

This is not the girl who spent 2 weeks living in London.
This is not the girl who presented a business plan to an auditorium of people.
This is not the girl who gave a compelling enough presentation to win a prize.
This is not the girl who told her story on BBC Radio Women’s hour.
This is not the girl who stepped back into education 4 years on.
This is not the girl who got 3 A’s and 3 A*’s despite being a carer for her parent.
This is not the girl who set up community gardens and ran workshops.
This is not the girl who worked 6 and a half days a week to pay the bills, when she had to.
This is not the girl who battled self harm and won.
This is not the girl who quit prostitution and remains exited, strong and proud.
This is not the girl who want to live, who knows things can get better, who is well.
This is not the girl who paints and writes poetry and laughs and lives.

That girl is me.

That girl is trapped inside, hammering on my rib cage that she wants a turn now.