Is this the teenage tragedy?
I've heard it way too many times.
This solo singer melody,
In a choir of lonely lies
I sang her story last year,
In a bed I'd made my coffin,
Sleeping as though I'd died already,
And was just waiting to be forgotten
Back then I'd thought I was so alone,
and that my thoughts were so unique.
Until I overheard some other kids
tell of their losses in this past week.
And I realised that my solitude, was mine, and mine alone.
But all these other
Hid some pain that was theirs,
and theirs alone.
I know I shouldn't interrupt,
but your performance must be cut.
I'll tear you from this solemn stage,
and cast the spotlight on
Who turn and manipulate in the darkness of your presentation
And the background dancers.
Whose elegant grace and exquisite contortions,
from your **** words and hideous thoughts
So that even you,
Sallow songbird on a stage scattered in shadows,
are entranced by their performance
On your own
Rotting wooden platform.
And I won't be your applauding audience member
Nor will I sit, with my perfected neutral expression,
Eating cyanide pills from popcorn buckets, watching you perform,
As the others do
With my own torn vocal chords, I'll protest for your show to be cut short,
even after you had invited me to join this spectacle.
Because today, I can feel it,
Pulsating a glow, brighter than any memory I can recall,
And it's burning me.
This palpitation of the present,
Which I know is a temporary sensation,
But it's a fraction of temporary too long
You fall from a rusted swing, in an abandoned playground
Watch your blood merge with the soil and the peat
Your structure punctures through your skin,
a harsh disruption to your soft, infant self.
You want to scream, but you wouldn't,
The pain will cease in an appropriate ammount of time™,
We don't talk about the permanent injuries from our seemingly inconsequential actions
A permanent solution to a temporary problem
People persistently parroted that platitudinous proclamation in pallid hopes of dismissal of your white palfrey
At least 3 of them, anyway.
You'd scream in that moment.
Call out for your mother,
Or some other great and unconquerable force,
To annihilate the hurt,
and quell your cries.
Her strong lips laying kisses upon your sore, youthful cheeks,
in an attempt to paralyse your own
I'm still playing in those sandboxes filled with bones,
In those playgrounds where we played,
When we were blind.
And in your town,
I see you.
Crouched inside the same wooden framework.
Knee deep and ready to sink.
Over grown victim of your own infanticide,
Have you buried the bones of the child you used to be?
Would we have looked her in the eyes as we prepared to dig her burial site-
A foot step away from where her blood had mixed with the filth,
And her cries had stifled into sniffs.
How deep is her shallow grave?
I think that maybe saying nothing would sound better,
But I dont want to witness my failure, before I even attempt to talk you off of the ledge you're standing on
Telepathic thoughts of "don't do it," won't reach you,
I know that
But feelings are so much easier to feel, than to describe.
I think that,
You think that this sounds like just another philistine sentimentalism.
I think that,
You know I don't know what I'm on about.
I'm not even sure of as to why
I'm so sure
I'm so sure.
That I want to save you
Is it even for you?
Or am I trying to save myself
From the guilt, of witnessing your fall,
After I had moved my own noose
From around my neck, to over my hips
Holding me above the hangman's stage I had performed on
Empty playgrounds are the loneliest things in the world.
More so than empty wombs,
And once empty graves.
Let's play together.