today i am yellow
not that neon yellow that
shouts at you to wake up from the bedside,
but instead that soft, quiet yellow
whispering at you to with coffee
from the doorway.
today i am yellow.
the yellow in a sunset,
bidding farewell to another day
gone awry
--
today i am abused.
not that i checked my schedule and
thought that today would work, but that
i looked at my schedule
and saw it was the 5 year anniversary
five years strong *******
five years ever changed, guys.
today i am abused.
not physically, where you can see it
but bruises that are shaped like hickies
and those hickies whisper sorry to me
and i repeat it every 3 seconds,
as though i'm on repeat.
---
today i am lost
not lost on a map as though i'm looking for treasure
but lost, like i get, when i search for my soul
my soul is fragile just like
my searching abilities
---
but just like yellow, abuse, and lost souls
i am drifting home so soon
and i see so much in front of me
but for now i am yellow
a lost soul
and abused

Dylan McConnell
Born in Madison, Wisconsin
Born on November 23rd
Who is the brother of Eden and Zoe Nisam
Who is the grandson of Lynn and Tom McConnell
Who is the nephew of Beth, Dana, Quinn, and Cristin McConnell

Who loves hugs, humor, and puns
Who hates sharing a room, cable tv, and the color red
Who feels love towards all beings
Who enjoys cigarettes, ****, and company
Who likes art, creating, and writing
Who gives love to all, good hugs, and great conversations
Who desires to go to college, become a counselor, and write a book
Who plays a mad a game of rummy and solitaire
Who is unemployed
Who eats literally everything, including fast food
Who changes the way people view the world.

Who loves.

Routine. Make sure you have it. Whether it be taking a shower and brushing your teeth every morning, or it is smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. I need you to have a routine sweetheart, it'll serve you when you're in high school.

2. Don't use violence. Treat others the way you want to be treated. The violence part? I know, easier said than done, but your dad had such a hard time in high school. He was suspended and almost got battery charges for hitting a girl. Also, your dad went to jail for abusing the effing crap out of your grandmother.  So trust me please, when I say violence is not the answer.

3. Read. Write. Create. Repeat. Read John Green, Neil Hilborn, and Savannah Brown. Write as though your soul is on fire and this is the only way to put it out. Write every day, write about pain, guilt, shame, suffering. Write about all the bad things, but also show those glimmers of hope. Create. Make art that shocks and makes people think. Make masterpieces. Make art you don't like. Whatever you do, just make art. Do it because your dad would. Do it for the world. You have so much potential.

4. Don't join Facebook. You will get preconditioned to the fact Facebook is a right of passage and a sense of freedom, but trust me, it isn't. It'll turn you from an artist to one who searches for love in all the wrong places. One who strives off likes, and hearts, and good reactions. It will make you feel worthless on those days you get zero shares from the status you thought was golden. I love you and you can do this.

5. This one is hard for me to say, especially considering I'm one of many whose done it, but don't attempt suicide. You'll regret it the moment it doesn't work and cry the moment you realize what you've done. I will let you know regardless if it works or not, the amount of pain you put others in: will not change. There will always be pain. I love you sweetheart and you can do this.

6. Listen to loads of music. This should be your drug of choice. I'll make you a playlist of all your padre's favorite songs. Music does wonders. Music soothes, helps you create, lets you let it out, and the list goes on and on.

7. Discover yourself; embrace that. Whether you be gay, straight, or bi. Whether you're happy, sad, or content. Whether you're ill or not ill. BE YOURSELF. Be so much yourself, you have the amount of confidence of a great white shark. Those *******, those animals are CONFIDENT. (19 year old me would also like to insert that werk it qween is a totally acceptable phrase)

8. You are made of magic. You have the bones of stars and the eyes of bravery. Anywhere you walk is going to be a place where everyone knows your presence. You walk on red carpets of kindness and love, but also you smile bigger than anyone in the room.

See her? Yeah, she's my daughter. She's my light, life, and reason to function on bad days. She brings me so much joy that the only way to describe it is, become an addict, go into foster care and lose everything you've ever known for ~1.5 years, and then uproot yourself into the adult life, 1 day after graduating. After you've completed those steps and only managed to need to be resuscitated twice, then you get to go onto the pile of adult ******* that entails: paying bills, overdosing on abused drugs, being forced to sign a 'mutual termination' contract with the place you were living because you had a mental health flare up. Are you still alive? Okay cool, well now you're going to move into sober living and fall in love with the wrong person while being there, get into drugs even more than you were before (ironic, eh,) and now... after all that. You move away from hell. And fall in love with the child you never thought you'd have.  

You bring me so much happiness, it's nearly ridiculous.

I am from keurig brewers and phones
from grits and Bluetooth headphones
I am from the white walls,
incense, and
I am from the lilacs outdoors
The neighbors plants

I am from "Wash your hands" and "Go Cavaliers!!"
I am from No Scrubs by TLC and shouting at TV due to basketball
I'm from family cookouts and foster care
I'm from Madison, WI and short prayers around the table
From my mom going to riots,
Thick hair,
and white walls.
I am from a cozy home on the north side of Madison,
and a good hug when needed.

I'm from hard times.
I'm from hard fought battles and long talks about
why **** is bad.
I'm from dumb arguments and loud cheers from the audience.
I'm from so much, and so little.

Love,
me.

Your love is like a rose and a dandelion.

Like a rose because it's thick to get to.
It's hard to find the soft, pretty, beautiful, spots of you.
Because there's thorns in the way.
It's like a rose, because you are beautiful and red.

but it's also like a dandelion.
****-y and unhealthy.
dangerous and probably will result in disfigurement, but baby bring it on.

I say this because your love is toxic.
because you didn't love despite all the effort I put in.

So. I woke up this morning thinking to myself, what are my values?
For some people, it’s trust, love, and honesty.
For others, it’s authenticity, compassion, and leadership.
Well, I thought about it, and not to sound like a hipster but some values are so stupid.
Other values, however, are pretty heckin’ cool.
I think I really value loyalty and trust.
Along with security and self-respect.
Lastly, I think I value creativity.
WAIT.
Did you see what I said in there?
-
-
-
-
I said “I think (...)”
I don’t think I value creativity.
I ******* know I value creativity.
That **** roots me.
That poetry?
Yeah, that stuff is awesome and makes my heart beat millions.

I know I value loyalty and self-respect.
Without that, we get nowhere.
I also really do value security and trust.

Lastly, I’d like to end this piece of art with a bit of truth.
I value you.
Yes you, the one reading this.

Rhonda is just a friend.
“A cat scratched me”
I love you.
Never, will I hit you.
Believe me.
Obviously she’ll be okay.
Well, I’m sorry.

I called my mom today because I thought she stops panic.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I think my mom’s the one who started the panic. She started the panic by having me three months early.
She started the panic by not believing my cousin ****** me happened.
She started the panic by putting my in the foster care system.
She started the panic by killing all the solar systems in you.
She started the panic by murdering the a e s t h e t i c.
She started the panic in all the one million ways you can think of.

I've survived 9 suicide attempts.
Been in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) twice
And
Lived to tell the tale.

I've been molested and *****.
Been able to tell my story in multiple ways.
And
Lived to tell the tale.

I'm not a survivor.
No.
I'm a liver.
I've done my surviving phase. That was miserable.
Now?
Now I live.

I tried to be depressed again but it just wasn’t the same.

I tried researching depressing songs,
Depressing lyrics, and
Depressing photos...
None of it was the same.

Nothing felt quite as...
Angsty.
Rebellious.
Sad.
Upsetting.

Nothing felt as bad.

But then he said he didn't like me back.

And everything began to feel the same as before.
I researched depressing songs,
Depressing lyrics, and photos,
All of it was the same.

The songs?
Sad,
Relatable,
and even a few help me shed a tear.

The photos?
Made me crave.
Made me hurt.
Didn't make me cringe.

The lyrics.
Yes.
I understand you, dearest artist(s).
I get it, what it's like to be depressed.

You see. When a person says they don't like you back, the typical response is to move on. But no, I didn't move on. I dwelled. I sat in that uncomfortable feeling and died internally because that's how numb I was.

You see, depression takes so much from you, it takes your freedom, words, music, and abilities. It is horrendous! Anyways, I hope I get over this ****. Because this ****'s a *****.

Took my eager will to listen to music. I'd listen to all types of music. I'd listen to Pierce the Veil and Vampire Weekend. I'd listen to folk punk and indie rock. I listened to rap and alternative. I miss the days when I could listen to music, now it just feels like shouting in my ear.

Took my sense of life. Now? I don't know what the date is half the time, nor do I know what time it is. I can barely make it through a day of school.

Took my excitement to be risky. I used to smoke **** nearly every day, do Adderall, smoke a pack a day. I'd do risky **** and end up in places I don't know how I got there. Man, I miss those days.

Even took my sleep from me. Now? I don't sleep past 5 hours a night. I hide in my room hoping someone will allow me to come out.

Depression took my frown, instead, it was replaced with a fake smile.

Depression eradicated any routine I've ever had. I used to shower and brush my teeth every day. Ever since depression came along, my routine has died. (metaphorically.)

Depression took away so much from me. And I don't think I can ever picture a life where I get it back.

I dreamt about so many things.
I dreamt about my monsters fleeing.
And my **** never happening.
I dreamt you never hit me and never gave me a concussion.
I had this wonderful dream you never left me.

Love is complex..
Love is kind.
Love is simple.
Love is hard.
Love is one-sided.
Love can be two-sided.
Love can help you.
Love can hurt you.
Love can make you cry.
Love can help you mend the unfixed wounds.

Love exists. But I’m not quite sure if it’s for me.

Which has lead me to crush on a LOT of adults. Because they do the following:

Having a good conversation that doesn’t end up in some fight. So it can be having this really hard conversation about death and he won't jump to conclusions. He won't assume I'm suicidal. And he sure as **** won't assume I need to go to the hospital. I love him for that.
Telling me when I’m acting like a *******. Like last night. "Just because something happened between us doesn't mean you get to isolate in your room." Thank you for helping me get my head out of my ***. I love you for that.
Sharing a cigarette. I love you for sharing addiction with me. You know addiction, you get addiction, you are an addiction. Man. I love you for it.
Buying me coffee. Meaning, you bring me in a good bag of coffee that actually doesn't need creamer to taste good. I love you for actually having taste.
Giving me compliments or calling me beautiful, even when I don’t have a bra on and look like I well, just woke up. I love you for speaking Spanish to me, because no one is that ****, but you are.
Telling me the truth. Like, “hey Dylan, you’re being stupid. Don’t kiss him.”
Sharing interests. Whether it be poetry, or movies. Cats, or jeeps. Even kinds of cigarettes, or coffee drinks.
Telling stories about our past. It can be “hey I used to drink a lot...” or it can be “I was abused as a child”
OR it can be “I was put in the foster care system.”
All of it makes me fall irrevocably in love with you.
Because you somehow become relatable with that experience.
And, at the end of this day, friendship confuses me.
I don’t know where the line is between friends and soulmates.
I just don’t know.

I’m not going to use 5,000 similes in this poem.
Why?
Because your bones do not tickle my throat like constellations,
Instead you abused me.
And I’m not going to make abuse into a pretty aesthetic poem.
I’m going to speak it how it is.

People assume abuse is pretty because people write about it in pretty terms.
But no, abuse is scary and messy.
It’s the forgetting your birthday and how you were born.
It’s the significant other hitting your thighs because you’re “too fat”.
It’s not getting coffee in the morning because “you’re a big girl” and can sweat out the hangover
-you didn’t ask for- off in a few hours.
And most importantly, you can’t forget how much of a **** you’d look like if you shaved your head, so you don’t.
Abuse isn’t “wrap me in your arms and put me in a choke hold so i can feel what it felt like to be mom”  
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC

I can’t say it enough. I can’t phrase it different ways. I can’t say “hey dude look, abuse ain’t cool
man” BECAUSE YOU NEED TO KNOW IT AS IT IS. AT FACE VALUE.

I am from a crystalline chandelier
From kit-kats and crayola
I am from the dusty cobwebs in the corners of our house
sad, sweet, smooth
I am from Topaz
an aluminum and fluorine mixture.
I'm from thanksgiving and hope.
From Kerra and Beth
I am from the nervous laughter and card games
From gum rotting in your stomach and shoes changing feet.
I'm from the lack of religion, no Christianity or Buddhism in this house.
I'm from Madison, WI
Oyster Stew, and sauteed zucchini
From the horrendous stories told about my dad. Making him look like the bad guy and vice versa.
The threats of being kicked out, not realizing I'd actually get kicked out.
Under my room, lays the closet. The closet has everything our family represents. From pictures to mementos to journal entries.
I am from these yellowed pictures, pages, and cards.
Rough and smooth somehow.

I survive off caffeine of sorts.
I survive off Bon Iver and Elliott Smith.
I survive off minimal money and ****** gas station jobs.
Lastly, I survive off of tiny computers and loads of paper.

I hope for a better day.
I hope for a home.
I hope for a family to call my own.
And I hope for a nice house and job in my future.

I live for poetry slams and trauma.
I also live for suicide awareness and ****** assault centers.
I live for helping the community and
getting my **** together.

I hate dogs and I hate people who **** people.
I hate people who eat tomatoes like apples.
I hate the fact I have enough trauma to last 3 lifetimes, but somedays, I really like I get to speak about my experience.
And somedays, I just hate life.

But today?
Today I survive off a 24oz cup of coffee.
I hope for a family.
I live for the knowledge that a better day will come.
And I hate my mother.

Imagine that I'm happy.
That I am safe.
That I'm listening to music every day 'till I'm 18.
That I have a cat to hug when I'm sad.
Imagine that I'm at a safe, happy, home.
That the home has heat.
It has people I can call mom and dad.
It has a room I can decorate for my own.
Imagine that I have resources for myself that better prepare for the world.
Transitional Living Program.
Anger management counseling.
And most importantly, A home!!
Imagine I feel alive.
That I go on road trips
That I have deep conversations and really think.
That I live for me.
Imagine.

I'm scared.
Scared of the demons in my head,
and monsters under my bed.
Scared of the dead,
and scared of what I said.

I'm fearful.
Fearful of hugs,
and of what's in the jug.
I'm fearful of bugs,
and also those pugs.

I'm petrified.
Petrified of getting space.
and of too much space.
Petrified of a phone case,
and even an embrace.

I'm scared.

The sight of jail is beyond frightening.
It's locked doors.
It's watching guards tear our your freedom as if it's nothing.
It's blue outfits you're forced upon your will to wear.
The smell of jail is the smell of the girl ******* her insides out.
It's the smell of half cooked meat, but hey at least it's food.
And it's the smell of musty deodorant.
The sound of jail is the sound of T.V.
It's people yelling.
Guards screaming at you.
The feel of jail is cold sheets and a mattress just a titch too hard to sleep on.
It's the feeling of isolation and depression seeping in.
It's the not so quiet feeling of sadness.
The taste of jail is lemonade that's ever so sour and gross.
It's the taste of blood because you keep biting your nails.
And lastly, it's the taste of your own fingernails. Because it's the only thing you can do to pass the 17 hours you have all 4 lights on.

“You Look So Happy”
happy you say?
you don’t see the cut
i use to pay
the smile that i shut
you don’t see my pain
when i hide away
i choose to abstain
yet i cry anyway
you don’t see the drunken smile
but that, i cannot hide that i am upsot
is this worth your while?
“What?”
what you murmured
you don’t understand it
understand my cravings
cravings for pain
pain that’s too deep
you don’t understand my tears
tears over her
her who broke me
me, the once whole human
you don’t understand my heart
my heart that’s broken
broken, shattered, not pumping
pumping the blood i need to live
“Oh”
you understand
ugly understanding now i’m gone
absent abuse now i’m a ghost
vanished violation now i disappeared
all gone, now that i’m gone

There comes a time in every person’s life when they need to make a choice.
A choice about love
A choice about life
A choice about which path to take
A choice.
It’s funny considering I’ve made probably all the wrong turns.
About love
About life
And even about which path to take.
I think I chose the wrong path.
But now?
Now I think I chose life.
I choose to love each person.
I choose to go on the “right” path.
I choose life.

By your touch.
The touch of soft, velvety fingers.
The touch of silky smooth sheets.
The touch of your heartbeat against mine.

By your voice.
The voice of comfort.
The voice of soothing words.
The voice of love. (see poem "To Love")

By your smell.
The smell of perfume.
The smell of sharpies.
The smell of cigarettes.

But I'm not only intoxicated by you. I'm intoxicated by so many other things.

But I'll leave that for another day.

"i'm fine"
Oh you're you say?
What happened to those scars on your arms?
What happened to the crying I heard at 3am?
What happened to you?

"no i don't like her, mom"
Why not, she's getting a three point o GPA.
She's in honor's classes...
Lastly, she's humane! She has a life sweetheart. Something I so dearly beg you get one day.

"i can't, i'm busy."
****, I ain't busy.
I ain't doing jack for work.
In fact, I'm sitting home right now.
Watching T.V and eating a carton of ice cream and breaking a bottle of *****.

"i won't give into depression"
Really?
You won't attempt at 3am when the voices tell you you're better off dead.
You won't use when you're too riled up sit straight?
Lastly, you won't cry when you've been sitting up for 3 nights in a row thinking of your ex mother?

"i'm staying at (best friends name's) house tonight"
Hell, I'm not.
I'm actually smoking at -stoner's- house.
I'm going and having *** with literally everyone whose ever loved me.
I'm going to be happy.

Love. Love is so much. Love can be that hug you get at just the right moment. Love can be the song she showed you. Love can be the first time you two had *** on the bathroom floor. Love can be an object.

Love is the sound of a pen writing and typewriter clicks. Love is the sound of keypad clicks because you know that means they're typing something just for you. Love is playlist after playlist. Love is the sound of knitting needles going back and forth and back and forth because she's knitting the scarf for you. Love is the sound of the perfume/cologne bottle spritzing. Love is the sound of pottery. Love is the sound of comforting words. Love is the sound of confessions late at night. Love is the sound of hang-up buttons and cars starting up. Love is.

Love is the feeling of the universe and stars moving to my brain stem and *******. Love is the feeling of you kissing my lips and moving slowly until you're at my collarbone. Love is the feeling of you moving my fingers to match yours. The feeling of poetry being written about me. The feeling of the zoo and butterflies, and even the robin outside moving around in my stomach because that's how you make me feel. Love is.

Love is the sight of you in the red dress that I bought you for our one month anniversary. Love is the sight of the paragraphs when I wake up. Love is the sight of seeing your wrist clean for a year. Love is the sight of waking up and realizing it's our one year anniversary. Love is the sight of nakedness. Love is the sight of you smiling. Love is the sight of our first date and delicious looking food.

Love is the smell of ha long bay and ginger tea. The smell of perfume on your girly days and the cologne on your not so girly days. Love is the smell of our house, along with bath and body works. Love is the smell of your hugs and your chapstick. Love is the smell of fresh vinyl and flower bouquets. Love is the smell of marshmallows and a crackling fire. Love is the smell of **** on my favorite sweatshirt. I love the smell of your sweatshirt and that's perfect.

Love is the taste of ha long bay. Love is the taste of her lips and chapstick against me. Love is the taste of wine and blood. Love is the taste of well, love. Not much to say for taste is there? Love is you.

You’re the first thing I think of when I wake up
And when I go to bed
Yet, If that wasn’t enough, even in the middle of the day I think of you.
You’re my soul reason for living.
And you never let me down.
You give a sense of purpose.
And make me laugh as if I was 3 years old again.
I think I love you...
At least that’s what I’d call this obsession...
You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this to you.
Well... I recently learned we can’t be together anymore.
She doesn’t want us seen together.
Apparently we’re a bad influence on each other.
I’m going to miss you.
At least that’s what I call this level of dedication

A few rules brought to you by society
Back hunched
Crying? Never.
Death cannot affect you
Enlist in the army
Fight everyone
Grow ****** hair
Hugs? Once again, never do them.
I’m just trying to help you find your way
Joke around in class
Knives are for fighting
Leave a mess everywhere
Music? Overrated
Never ask for help
Open doors for others
Please, thank you, ma’am, sir
Quiet, you must abide by these rules
Remember to ask the parents first
Sit in class, always confused
Talk with your mouth full
Understand your place in society
Very nicely, take her on dates
Wilt in sadness but never show it
Xerotic Eyes
Yes, I’m being honest even
Zebras abide by these rules

Depression

This is the sound of depression.
The sound of your mother yelling at you to clean your room up for the tenth time this week.
The sound of a blade engraved in your skin.
Your pencil scribbling down your intense thoughts.
The sound of the monster screaming you're not good enough.

This is the feeling of depression.
The sinking feeling of pain in your stomach.
The monster tickling the bottom of your spine so you get chills.
The feeling someone just broke up with you, but instead of getting this feeling once, you get this feeling once an hour.
You're father calling you a worthless **** and how you react to it.

This is the taste of depression.
The taste of blood.
The taste of ***** in your mouth because you can't keep your food down.
The taste of regret, the taste of sadness, the taste of hurt.
This is the taste of sadness.
The flavor of pain.
This is the taste of discomfort.

This is the smell of depression.
The smell of a dead body wafting through the vents.
*****.
Your dead body ******* itself.
This.
This is the reeking smell of depression.

This is the look of depression.
You not showering for your third week straight.
Engraved poetry in your wrist.
You almost hitting someone and everyone staring at you as you slowly lose your ****.
You losing 20 pounds in 1 week.
Not by purpose but not really by accident.
it just... wasn't the top of the depression priority list


this is depression.