When I was young,
my mother held me close
and I wouldn’t leave her side
and when I was young,
my father would take sips
of poison and call out to us.
When I was young,
my friends would come and go
like seasons and lovers
would come and go even more
frequently.
When I was young,
my hips were too big and
so was my chest and so was
my stomach.
When I was young,
I was called promiscuous.
A worse variation with the same meaning
but tell me how
an 8 year old child can be
promiscuous.
When I was young,
my only connections to home
were broken by drugs and anger.
All that is left there
are the disheveled remnants of family
who cared more about drugs
than salvation anyway.
But whats the difference.
When I was young,
I was left alone and shouted
at for it.
When I was young,
I was told thoughts of suicide
were unhealthy
but then why had I always had them.
When I was young,
I wished for the day when
I wouldn’t have to wake up anymore
I haven’t been young
since I was 8.
Now I am older.
I can say all this without
the slightest breath
of sadness on my lips.
Sadness still runs
through me like
rivers of cold melancholy
and I dream of a day when
I can say all this
with the taste of
an emotion in my mouth
because that means I
can open up again.
It means love exists.