You're ten years old,
And it's your first day of fifth grade.
Your mom made you wear something feminine,
Not quite girly, because you would have thrown a fit
And she just doesn't have it in her anymore to fight with you.
You spent the last three days hiding in the corner of closet with your dog,
Crying because you don't want to grow up.
And this year, you have to. This year, it means you are doing just that.
Grown ups are never happy.
You don't want this.
You're nervous and insecure as you search for your name
Written in permanent marker on some laminated name tag
Taped to a desk made of linoleum that looks like wood.
When you find it, you cringe at the way the teacher wrote your last name.
All pretty and feminine, when "Blood" is nowhere near that,
But you sigh and accept it,
As you watch the other kids filter in.
Two boys walk in, they introduce themselves.
Another boy walks over, settles himself at the desk near yours,
You notice he's shorter than you,
And already being small, it makes you feel somewhat better.
He notices you staring,
And your father's voice echoes in your head,
"Staring is rude...!"
So you look at the book on your desk,
The one about cats that's below your reading level,
But thick enough to hide behind.
Sooner or later,
One of you introduces yourself to the other.
You only stop smiling that day when your older brother gets hold of you.

You're eleven, in sixth grade.
He's still your best friend,
And you were chattering all about him in the car to your dad
On the way home.
Mom's still sick.
Hasn't seemed to recover from the car accident last year that you still blame yourself for.
They've both come to the conclusion you have a crush on this boy,
And it's special. Your first crush.
You disagree wholeheartedly, but that will change.
You get home, into your room to start on homework,
But then your stomach starts hurting.
Everything starts hurting.
You're getting dizzy.
There's so much blood,
And it's making you queasy.
You scream and cry, you don't understand.
Your mother warned you that this is a big part of getting older,
But you don't want it.
You run to tell her,
She helps you clean up,
But you miss your chorus concert that night,
And the next two days of school
Because you can't get out of bed
It hurts so bad,
Worse than when big brother is mad.
You don't talk to him when you get back to school
For the next three days,
Because you're ashamed that this is part of you,
That you're grown up,
And if you talk to him he might find out
And not want to be your friend anymore.

You're twelve, and in seventh grade.
You came home from school,
A little bummed.
You barely got to see your friends that summer,
Definitely not him,
And you don't have any classes
With any friends
Or him.
But he was on your mind all summer,
So you've come to the conclusion that you'll just
Find him in the hallways
Or at lunch.
Your father comes to you with some bad news.
Mom's still sick. We don't know why.
You frown, but nod. It seems like he has more to say.
And he does,
"We're moving."
And you ask, calmly but your hands are shaking as you begin preparing a snack for your little brothers, "Will I stay in the same school?" Having been home schooled twice and sent to four different elementary schools (one of which you were sent to twice) you were genuinely worried. Not to mention you had no way of contacting him or anyone else.
"No, you'll be switching schools."
You give your brothers their snacks,
And you begin to walk to your room.
You have to get out of the room,
But you're already crying. "Are you sure?" You've already started the fight.
And from there insults are thrown, and it's an all out screaming match,
Who can be louder?
Who can be meaner?
Like wolves fighting for who should be alpha,
Who can bare more of their teeth
Before the other lunges for their throat.
It happens with similar personality types.
And finally,
The straw the breaks the camels back,
"What, are you in love with somebody?"
As though mocking your ability to care.
You go to your room,
And close the door without slamming it.
You look at your sketch book
Flip open to a page and draw.
Put on music.
Anything to drown out what you're feeling.
You look at the clock.
You look at the clock again.
It was six fifteen.
Now it's twelve forty five.
You're covered in your own blood and feel dizzy.
You cry harder,
As you pour hydrogen peroxide onto the scrapes and cuts on your arms, and bandage them up.
Put on your mother's old black hoodie,
And so it begins.

You're thirteen,
It's summer time.
A friend just texted you that his sister died.
You can't breathe. It's your fault, if you had only been there for both of them.
You should have been there.
You weren't, though.
It takes your little brothers waking you up at six am screaming
To get you to come out of your room after four days.
This time the screaming match is with your older brother,
And though you're terrified,
You win this one.
But he isn't happy,
And neither will you be.

You're fourteen, ninth grade. New friends that all adore your clothes and last name.
You're the new kid at a new school.
Again.
"Ask him out! He's your friend! That's how relationships start!"
You'll mull it over, but something in your gut says not to even stick around.

You're fourteen.
Going to your brother's old school's football game.
That boy from fifth grade? He's there.
You want to talk to him all night, but you realize he has his friends there.
You speak with him as much as you can,
But you can feel yourself fading out.
Brother isn't happy with you that night.

You're fourteen. One of your little brothers is sick in the hospital.
It's Christmas. You're all there to go see him.
They have to rush him to another hospital.
You're praying for an angel. You didn't even know you still believed in a God but
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," You sigh as you kneel to say another plea.
Your mother calls,
He's gone.
You can't breathe.
Things are going black,
But you can't do this.
Not here,
Not now.
Your mother gasps on the other line,
He's back.
Maybe God is real.

You're fifteen.
A boy touched you without asking.
You didn't like it.
You're at home and you can't stop throwing up.
Your brother's at-the-time girlfriend texts you,
You tell her you don't want to exist.
He figures out that you're purging.
No one ever asks why.

You're fifteen.
He hits you for the first time because you said no.
You go home,
And don't know what to do.
They all said this was normal,
And maybe it is.
It's nothing new, right?
Just a different person.
You're at the computer,
Decide to make a page called
"The Sun Came Out to See You"
Because you need a reason to keep going,
And maybe that's all you got.
You roll up your sleeves,
And your mother catches note of the scratches and cuts scabbed over
All over your arms.
It isn't a screaming match this time.
She's screaming,
You sit there, ashamed.
Your father cries--
It won't be the last time you make him cry.
You go to your room,
Your parents are still fighting
Mom leaves,
You black out again.
It's the largest scar you have.
Mom doesn't come back until after work the next day.
You don't show her your hands again for months.

You're sixteen, sophomore year.
Your mother has been diagnosed with stage four breast and ovarian cancer.
The doctors have done as many surgeries as possible, but the cancer is still there.
They're doing all they can.
You refuse to accept that this is it.

You're sixteen.
You've finally escaped that horrible boy without any of the messy stuff,
And you're living in Georgia.
It's horrible,
But if you can escape this,
Maybe you can get back to your best friend from all those years ago.
You wake up smiling for the first time in years
Because you dreamnt of him.
It was warm and hopeful and foolish.
The dream becomes the place you retreat to so you can escape reality.
No one ever learns of it.

You're sixteen. You move back home.
You're taken in by your drama teacher.
Your mom is losing hair from the chemo.
That horrible boy is back in your life.
Something terrible happens
He's horrible
But how can even this happen
People don't do this
That's not how this happened
You said no
You screamed
You hit him
And it hurt,
Oh god it hurt.
You don't come out of your room
To socialize anymore.
You escape reality
As often as you can.

You're eighteen. You just turned eighteen. It's senior year.
You get a phone call.
Your friend was out of class.
He killed himself that morning.
It's your fault.
You saw the signs
And did nothing.
You'll hate yourself for it
To this day.

You're eighteen, almost nineteen.
He does it again,
For the umpteenth time.
Differently,
But the same.
You hit him with a book.
And after two years of telling him you want out of the relationship,
This time he leaves you,
With violent words.
You cry at the front door.
You go to the psychiatric hospital for the third time.
You're finally free.

You're twenty.
You've been trying to feel better,
And maybe you finally are.
You've dropped out of school,
You can't seem to balance it with work,
And your grant got taken
Because you went from being a foster child
To being adopted.
You meet him in a parking lot,
With your best friend at the time.
He's brash and straight forward,
And for some reason you find that charming,
You're inexperienced and vulnerable
And he takes advantage of that.
You last one year with him where you aren't allowed to speak to YOUR friends or family
Before he abandons you on your (real) best friend's doorstep
With nothing but the clothes on your back
And the shoes on your feet.

You're twenty one.
The Monday after he left you he went out
With the girl he cheated on you with.
You don't know this yet.
You go to the hospital
Because you have to get better,
Be better.
And you meet great people there,
Probably talk about yourself too much,
But you're told "Please be strong; Please be brave"
After you realize you're a good person
And you should like yourself.
The words stick.
Sadly, the people don't.

You're twenty one,
You have that "escape from reality" dream again,
But it's different.
You live with your biological parents again,
Your mother beat cancer.
You are sure God is real.
You decide to contact that boy from fifth grade,
That you loved even past seventh grade.
You're nervous
But he actually responds.
You talk almost every day
Until July
When you meet up for the first time
In seven  years.
When you see him,
You want to hug him but you're scared.
He's grown up.
He's taller than you.
He's handsome.
You frown internally.
"Don't fall that easy," You think.
You don't listen.
You tell him you like him,
Two days later.
He likes you back!

You're twenty one,
You're writing this poem.
You love wearing feminine clothing,
And you could care less about your last name (almost, still hate it a little).
On both your little brother's birthday,
You'll have been dating that boy you've loved for so long for three months.
You've loved him all this time,
All this time it's always been him.
No one else.
After four months,
You'll live together.
Because he's not only the love of your life (literally)
But your best friend.
And you couldn't be happier.
And you look at your scars,
Slightly ashamed,
But you remember that he kisses each and every one,
And you remember that your scars
Have nothing to do
With who you are,
Rather with how you've grown.
You talk to your father about him,
And he approves.
Remember when I said that wouldn't be the last time you make him cry?
All the other times you make him cry will be for better reasons.
You've grown up.
But you were wrong.
You're happy.