I am a slave to your emotions.
Constantly pushed down to my knees,
Forced to surrender to everyone else’s needs
But my own.
In a state of binding that I so willingly allowed.
I recognize when other people
Are out in the cold
So much that I’ve left myself
To freeze to death.
I’ve learned that my compassion is not a gift
Except to those in my presence.
There’s a beautiful cabin
On top of a snowy hill.
It’s clearly inhabited, with
Happy voices filling the atmosphere.
Everyone looks warm.
Nobody would suspect the owner
Of the cabin to be buried
Ten feet under snow.
Snowflakes delicately coat my eyelashes.
My lips are stained blue and purple.
My skin seems to blend in with
The snow piling on top of me.
I no longer have the radiance
That attracts those in search
Of a listening ear.
It’s not my duty to clean them up.
It’s never me people worry about.
It’s the daily “How are you?”
The “I’m here if you need anything.”
It’s the dancing flame healing around the clock.
Would I be the selfish one
If all the sudden,
My services stopped?
"Come inside, warm yourself up."
the only sound i remember is my feet colliding with the pavement.
over and over and over again.
when its over, theres a police officer in my home.
he looks unusual standing in my living room.
i let him handcuff me while my father, a retired officer himself, looks away in disgust.
when he takes me outside to his police car, my neighbor is outside.
she makes eye contact with me and quickly looks away.
this is my life.
it’s euphoric, its dreary, its beautiful and miserable all at once.
it’s sleeping on hard mattresses reading words engraved in psych ward walls.
it’s the low glow of motel lights and it’s kissing the lips of my best friend who i’m so desperately in love with. it’s spilling our hearts out on her bed and wishing we were older.
where do i go from here?
one two three four five six seven eight nine
ten, i tuck my stuffed elephant under my arm.
i watch my mom read brochures in a silent waiting room i’ve never sat in before.
soon, i’m sitting alone with a blonde woman a few years younger than my mom. she asks me why i feel guilty all the time. i tell her that i’m a sinner.
she asks what guilt feels like to me. i tell her it feels like there’s a monster in my stomach eating away at my insides. i tell her about how i stay awake because it hurts too badly to fall asleep.
she takes a second and then asks me why i sometimes act younger than i really am. i tell her that it’s because i’m scared.
she glances at the clock and hands me a blue journal. she tells me to write down everything i do in a day that makes me feel guilty.
i accept the notebook quietly. on a piece of copy paper, she draws a tool box. she explains that she’s giving me certain tools to use when i don’t feel good. i don’t understand how a drawing of a hammer is going to help anything.
i’m ten. nobody bothers to tell me that i have obsessive compulsive disorder. all i know is that i’m a sinner. i’m scared of God. i’m even more scared of the feeling in my stomach. i’m scared of the way my mom spends hours with her computer light illuminating her face. i sometimes look at the screen when she walks away.
my mom has been crying every night. i hear her saying that i’m not myself anymore. i hate her for saying that.
ive always been a sinner.
— The End —