Play Pretend, a poem by Drem

Play-Pretend (originally called Seeing Me), a poem by Drem

Originally written May 4, 2015

Rewritten Sept 1, 2016


“Inspired by


My eyes hit.

So I talked to her,

made casual conversation

the best awkward-less way I could

about the highlights of my past

and my present

and who I think I am,

the kind of person I think I look like-

all about the person I pretend I am.

I’m not trying to fool anyone.

It’s just… I haven’t seen me in a long while.

I’ve kind of forgotten who I was like

before all the bad stuff happened.

Time goes by in a strange way

since that day the bad stuff happened.

Nowadays, linearly.

Now empty hands I have

I pretend are full.

She talks to me

with meaning

about 3rd world causes

we can’t really do anything about.

She talks to me

and I have nothing to pay her with.

She thinks I look like someone

I used to be.

I say I’m not her.

She continues anyway.

I think she has missed the company.

The attention.

I don’t mind.

I talked to him, someone else, this guy,

about who I was later.

And he talked to me

about where he is

in the grand span of things

and how big his heart is

and how messed up it is-

hurt and damaged from mean cheating girls that fucked him-

like I give a shit.

He’s too young to feel so broken.

And I’m too old to be talking to him.

I’m a jaded 20-something

girl on chemo

with no time for his high school bullshit

or her thoughts of who I used to be.

Maybe I’m desensitized

by the nights after nights,

years and years,

of pills,

my poisons,


and needles.

I’m a jaded 20-something

who isn’t really nice.

A cold, unsympathetic someone

with no friends,

no love,

no past she can remember

and no money. 

They don’t know I circle and circle.

The pain I’m in fills my orange bottles

with narcotics.

The pills to manage it gives me anxiety.

The pills for anxiety causes my depression.

The pills for the depression makes me float away.



I’m in the middle of a beautiful fractal

made of orange plastic safety-capped bottles.

And my hands and forearms

are covered with scars

from untrained nurses.

Nobody has seen me in days.

Actually seen me.

Neither of them notice these bruises.

Proof i’m a living, breathing shadow

of a ghost

that is only visible

if you squint really hard

and use pixie dust

and think happy things.

Otherwise I’m borderline invisible.


She’s not my solution.

He’s not my solution.

I talk to them anyway.

Some company.

I don’t care who they are.

I don’t ask any questions.

You can be whoever you want to be, too.

I won’t tell nobody.

Play make-believe

and I’ll believe what you want me to believe

if only for the moment

to make us both feel a connection

to the real busy world

we haven’t been a part of

in an awfully long while.”

(C) 2016 Drem

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