Letters from sixteen

It's hard to explain

Songs written while listening to "it's hard to explain" by the strokes.

Reminders of days past
In the beginning I tried everything I could to stop the abuse,
I was not going to let him hurt me.
He did it anyway.
I put my entire being into stopping him.
I was not going to be used and left to be picked up by the garbage men.
I screamed and cried and begged.
I was not going to let this happen.
He did it anyway.
But soon you get tired of fighting.
I didn't want this, I wasn't going to take it, but what else was there left to do?
I couldn't stop him, as much as I wanted to, he knew what power he held over me.
He knew how to keep me quiet.
So soon I learned to walk away as it happened.
Maybe it was my body but it wasn't me.
I was there, I believe that, but I watched it happen from the corner of my bedroom.
The worst was the night he said he'd kill me.
I remember I knew what to expect at that point.
I had learned how to walk away from my body and go somewhere else.
When he came into my bedroom I was there but I had left a long time ago.
He started doing what it always did.
I can't explain how bad it hurt.
The pain was excruciating, I tried to hold back the tears but they came rolling down my cheeks.
He didn't care, why would he, it's not like he ever did.

Tell anyone and i'll fucking kill you
I remember he said it so calmly.
He wasn't threatening me, he was laying down the law.
How was I supposed to tell the difference between a bluff and that statement?
He didn't stutter, his voice didn't shake.
Tell anyone and I'll fucking kill you.
I make my morning coffee.
I laugh to myself for reasons I can't explain.
I walk towards my bedroom and make my to-do list.
Tell anyone and I'll fucking kill you.
I ride my bike to school.
I open my computer and begin writing.
I read over old poems.
Tell anyone and I'll fucking kill you.
I sleep in the living room.
I watch cartoons and try to close my eyes.
I can't seem to sleep.
It always seems to linger.
Tell anyone and I'll fucking kill you.

It's hard to explain
I have cared about him for some time, I don't often find myself feeling like this.
Normally the window between me and the other is thick and foggy.
But of course I didn't feel that way, I wouldn't be like that, not at all.
I met a girl, she was pretty and nice with blond hair and blue eyes, so i decided.
I decided I'd think about her, when they asked, I'd talk about her.
But that's not how this works, is it?
I really do love him, he means more than most.
But of course I don't feel that way, I wouldn't be like that, not at all.

I will not let him (hopefully, maybe, possibly)
What he did to me nearly killed me, but it will not.
I was assaulted and threatened,
I was left to clench my teeth and walk away from my body.
But he did not kill me, and with a shaky voice I say I will not let him.

I don't see it that way
When writing what I did I really knew in my heart I'd be sober forever.
Looking back at that, I am surprised to see how much worse I have gotten.
I have quite literally never been this addicted.
I was bad before but this low point is further in the ground than it's ever been.
I am often unable to remember what I took when.
Maybe it was yesterday but that could have been earlier today, I mean it can't hurt to do a little more.
It can, as much as I would like to believe otherwise I am not above the accidental overdose.
I keep a log now, to avoid such consequences.
But it stings a bit to see it all staring back at me.

What I write about
I wrote a lot about being sober when I was young.
Reading those old poems ached.
I was proud of the work I put in, ten months is a long time.
But that time was nothing more than a chapter that ended.
I wrote my story and let the pencil shavings fly into the wind.
I now write about being addicted to the things I promised myself I'd never do.
I now write about being the liar I swore myself off from being.
I now write about the person I'd never thought I'd be again.