It was the year of my 14th birthday, when I first found that the word “go” had an entirely new meaning.
When I was young, “go” meant to run
go meant to run through the fields until your legs brought you to your own knees
go meant to strive for what you loved, and whatever you loved.

when I was fourteen, go remained as to run,
but to run away.
go meant to leave, with no living desire to
return.
go was synonymously my father’s clenched fists against the kitchen work surface
whilst my mother stood in her flesh and blood.

when i was 7,
i made love potions in my garden with flowers and water.
love was to fanatically involved with something.
love was to feed fuel to the fire,
that would light the way
love was life,
and life was love.

when I turned sixteen,
I went back out into that garden, and made my very own love potion
sticks and stones, which depicted the naivety of the words which supposedly would never hurt but made me feel more than even a
hurricane could.
Mud to represent the lost flowers from the light you took from within.
Love meant nothing more than the heartbreak that snuck up to stab you before Cupid could even hit you.
Love became the tears that my pillow felt on nights when I couldn’t hold in the flood.
Love represented the scrapes and grazes that my own hands gave me.

Unfamiliar words, like “sad, weak, loss and collateral" became friends, the friends that I hoped I would never make.

On my fourteenth birthday, I learnt of a new meaning for hold.
To hold, meant for me
only safety
and the earth to stop turning for just a moment, to give you
the chance to stand back up.
But on my fourteenth birthday,
to hold meant to hold captive,
as you grasped me in your vice
until my words couldn't be spoken,
and my heart screamed so ******* loudly
yet so quietly that the deaf could hear.

I'm approaching my seventeenth birthday,
and i'm scared to discover
what's next.