Monday, January 21, 2013

Backwards

I feel guilty, she says, even when it's not my fault.
She didn't mean it as a trigger
I know this
I KNOW this
But chanting it, running it over my tongue a hundred thousand times?
It does nothing except for make it lose it's meaning
And how else can you phrase that?
She didn't mean it,
She didn't mean it,
She didn't mean it.
And so,
When the wave crashes over my head and my lungs fill with saltwater
No one knows what to expect
Or what they were expecting.
All they know is
I am not here,
My mind is in the clouds, or buried far, far below the earth's crust
Where I cannot be reached,
But my body responds.
It will pull the comforter
Obviously not doing it's job
Around it's shoulders,
And it will cringe away when you try to use touch to convey emotion
Because it knows that your emotion is pity, pity and shame and grief.
Your grief,
Because you have raised a broken child
A thirteen year old, confident and shy,
Unwanted and cared for,
Perfect and cracked
Like the surface of a mirror,
So that when you look back,
You see nothing, just a spiderweb of white lines full of broken dreams.
And when I run,
When I escape back to mindless pixels, unknowing friends, meaningless words,
I expect it all to get better -- but.
But instead I read and I see and these pixels, these friends, these words mean nothing to me
Not when I am like this.
I am a victim.
I have cried out all my tears, time and time again, and not made the first cut too many times, and carried the weight of other people's problems for far too long.
But I…
I don't know how to stop.
I want to learn
To raise myself up and learn how to get better
But learning has never been my strong point;
I fall behind.
While my friends - those unknowing friends
Move upward, onward, forward,
I stay looking into the past
Into my mistakes and failures and
I don't see anything.
I see nothing at all,
Just the knife, twisting and twisting and pushing in deeper.
I am a backwards child,
Scarred and scared and young.
I regret everything,
My friends and my classes and my names and my afternoons spent inside,
I regret my summers, my winters, my springs and my autumns,
My birthdays, my Christmases, my July fourths.
I regret everything, and
I know I should have enjoyed it, but
I am a backwards child,
Scarred, scared, regretting, young, and yearning for the years I can never get back.

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