In 6th grade I declared that I hated hugs. My sister would hug me and she would lean and be mean Hug me and press all of her weight. Hug me and let all the words escape. And my dad, Oh my dad. If I didn’t give him a hug I was ungrateful If I didn’t give him a hug I was rude My mom, She got the message Wouldn’t get to close We never talked like we were close. I always wanted to hug my mom. Tell her I loved her and how I was doing. But I learned you can’t be different for different people. And I remember the first day of high school I said it was good and I said I already had homework so I had an excuse to leave. I said that for four years. I would disappear to do homework. In that four years I realized I miss the feeling of closeness Cuddled in arms or conversation. I realized I missed out on six years. When you push and push and push people away They get the message When you push and push and push people away You grow so distant you can’t see anymore I’d grown to like the sun. So bright it’s blinding So bright it stings So bright my eyes try to close ; I can finally see But my eyes How they have gotten so use to me begging them shut, That now they can’t stop trying to. I had shut you out so much that when I came to you crying sophomore year You didn’t know what to Hadn’t seen me crying since grade two I handed you a piece of paper from the school counselor I remember him telling me it’s only going to get worse I remember him asking me what I’m going to do And I got up and said sorry. I had just come in for extra credit in science I got up and said sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your time. You handed me a piece of paper and begged me to give it to my mom. It took three weeks but i did. It took three weeks but I did. It took three weeks and mom, you said, It’s red dye number two. You said it’s in all that processed food. You said I’ll be fine give it a week. You said I’ll be fine watch what you speak
I stood there. I stood there and it was like the day I got my period. How I decided to bleed through my pants instead of telling you. How 12 year old me decided I wanted to do my own laundry. How you still saw my bright blue gym shorts with red stains. How I stood in front of you exposed How I stood in front of you with literal blood pouring from me.
It was that moment again. But this time blood is a metaphor But this time the blood stain couldn’t come out But this time you didn’t give me any tools that I needed But this time you said everything is perfect why can’t you see it. But this time I asked for a hug. You said you don’t like those anymore.