I wrote this a little after my 16th birthday. I wish I could go back in time and teach this girl how to feel better about herself. But I guess I sort of did. If you were similarly lost at some point, Past and Present Helena send this poem and a lot of love to that kid.


Who’re You Callin’ Kid? 

I am
remembering the fanatic outside.
She held a sign
calling me a cold-blooded murderer.
Maybe she’s right
and I could be wrong.
Some things
are easier to make sense of
than others.
I may be a killer
but I’m not a fiend.
If there’s a heart in me
I know it’s been broke.
If there’s a god somewhere
I hope we don’t meet.
I’ve gotten so worn
from being run through the wringer—
is it for better or worse?
You tell me
since I don’t know.
Rethinking that
keep it to yourself
because I don’t care.
They say I’m a kid
but I don’t think so
because when you’re sleepwalking
through a nightmare
it’s hard to remember
and Mirth
or that there was ever a child
I may be a phoenix
but I’m still not beautiful.
I may be the wild card
but your hand’s still jack shit.
I may be a girl
or a woman
or a cold-blooded killer—
but whatever I am
I’m not a kid.