at age 7, everything is too loud.
the flashing lights blind me.
the wails ring in my ears.
i can't help but crumple to the floor.
no one else is copying me, though.
they'll brush me aside along with
the dust and trash.
"it's only temporary," they say.
and i believe them,
for naivety is second nature to me.
at age 16, i become a heretic.
silently, the others pushed me aside.
they prayed on their own
without inviting me to any gatherings.
was it something i said?
was it something i did?
it is something in your brain
that shows itself implicitly and explicitly.
as god implants this horrible loneliness inside me,
i make deep gashes into the pale canvas.
crimson stains my pages red.
at age 18, i drown in an ocean of my own creation.
i never learned how to throw the anchor.
the saviors have discarded their wings
and have shown their devilish grins.
the signs of my chaos were there from the very start,
but no one paid any attention.
so now i'm learning how to glue myself
still, it hurts.
oh, god, it hurts.
there's a shining light above me that i'm trying so hard
but it's going to take a while to bring it close.
at 30 or 40 or 50 or even 90,
i don't think i can forgive them.
they ignored the warning
and shoved me into the deep end.
this shell is bloodied, broken, and bruised.
the noises are still too loud
and the people still speak in distorted voices.
but i'll persist.
although i can't go back to the confused child,
i'll heal myself for them.
besides, it's what they would have wanted.