Jul 2015
I wish I could turn back time,
Force the hands on the clock to spin backwards
Memories flash by, broken fragments of a life I used to call home.
Can you hear me?
Age 15, I come out of the closet. I am stuck in solitary confinement for nearly a week. I lock myself in my room, tears turn into razors, razors turn into release, I begin a cycle that cannot be broken.
Age 14, they take him away. My baby brother rushed out in a flash of white. Mother and father are crying, I do not say anything. It is hard to understand how I could have done something like this. I should have realized that my selfishness stole the spotlight away from him. He is locked up for a week after trying to suffocate himself, he tells me that he no longer wants to live in my shadow. I wonder what day he will take up metal and lead and solve the problem I created.
Age 13, it becomes clear to my parents that I am not quite right. Days pass without me speaking. I’ve lost my voice somewhere within myself there are days I wonder if I will ever get it back. I want to tell them I’m sorry so I apologize in my best handwriting and pray to god one day they will forgive me. I try to drown myself depending on strictly my own weight to sink me, I am saved before I lose consciousness.
Age 12, things are really good now. Mommy and daddy spent a whole day talking with me. They’ve told me they are proud of me.
11,
Age 10, Mom and dad are at war, our house feels like a battlefield and I am on the frontline for both sides. I’ve carried my weight, fought for both cavalries, but is clear neither of them are going to win.
9, 8, 7,6
Age 5 – I sneak downstairs. Mommy and daddy are talking about how much I’ve grown…unhealthy…they wonder how many more dollars they will have to pour out on me for surgery. I notice that they don’t want to be around me as much anymore. For the first time I realize that I make their lives harder.
4,
Age 3 –My mother picks me up from my cradle, slowly trying to rock me to sleep. She promises there will be a day when I feel better. Tears stream down from her face.
2, 1,0
I am sixteen now, sixteen and still addicted to the cycle. I am no quitter. I do my best work until the cycle ends itself.
Force the hands on the clock to spin backwards
Memories flash by, broken fragments of a life I used to call home.
Can you hear me?
Age 15, I come out of the closet. I am stuck in solitary confinement for nearly a week. I lock myself in my room, tears turn into razors, razors turn into release, I begin a cycle that cannot be broken.
Age 14, they take him away. My baby brother rushed out in a flash of white. Mother and father are crying, I do not say anything. It is hard to understand how I could have done something like this. I should have realized that my selfishness stole the spotlight away from him. He is locked up for a week after trying to suffocate himself, he tells me that he no longer wants to live in my shadow. I wonder what day he will take up metal and lead and solve the problem I created.
Age 13, it becomes clear to my parents that I am not quite right. Days pass without me speaking. I’ve lost my voice somewhere within myself there are days I wonder if I will ever get it back. I want to tell them I’m sorry so I apologize in my best handwriting and pray to god one day they will forgive me. I try to drown myself depending on strictly my own weight to sink me, I am saved before I lose consciousness.
Age 12, things are really good now. Mommy and daddy spent a whole day talking with me. They’ve told me they are proud of me.
11,
Age 10, Mom and dad are at war, our house feels like a battlefield and I am on the frontline for both sides. I’ve carried my weight, fought for both cavalries, but is clear neither of them are going to win.
9, 8, 7,6
Age 5 – I sneak downstairs. Mommy and daddy are talking about how much I’ve grown…unhealthy…they wonder how many more dollars they will have to pour out on me for surgery. I notice that they don’t want to be around me as much anymore. For the first time I realize that I make their lives harder.
4,
Age 3 –My mother picks me up from my cradle, slowly trying to rock me to sleep. She promises there will be a day when I feel better. Tears stream down from her face.
2, 1,0
I am sixteen now, sixteen and still addicted to the cycle. I am no quitter. I do my best work until the cycle ends itself.
