nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

Parentless - ORIGINAL PROSE

To be a parent means to give up all you are, but to be parentless means to never have known yourself at all, ever, not once, not at all. I wander through the streets, late at night, and wonder if it were my fault. I rise from slumber, I carry myself through my day, and wonder still if it were all my fault. It was my fault; it wasn't my fault; I had my own choices to make; my choices mattered not, for I was without power and control; I also had my own strength, hidden deep within me, waiting to be harnessed, waiting for my self to take the reins of my life, of my heart, of my mind, of my soul.

I hate you, I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you, I hate you for all time, I miss you and wish for you to be near, I never wish to see you again, I wish to drown, I wish to lie here and wait for something, anything, for relief from the hand of God pressing so firmly, so painfully against my chest. But, most of all, I wish for blissful, restful, uninterrupted sleep, for however long that may be.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you, it's painful to sit with the knowledge that one can feel such intense hatred for those who brought them into this world, without cause or concern, without thought for the consequences, without acknowledgement for the effect it may have on those impacted by such actions. I love you, in my moments of weakness, as a child lost in this world; I wandered through the streets, as I sit with the knowledge no one would care if I never made it home - a small, lonely, dingy apartment, where I cry and cry, such broken, uncontrollable sobs, as my heart screams out to be seen, validated, held and cared for in all the ways we all wish to be acknowledged.

To be a child is to depend on others, but to be a parentless child is to be forced to hold your own hand, to look in the mirror and collapse beneath the weight of the reflection (so torn apart by fury, rage, sadness and hopelessness - not necessarily in that order) staring back at you, only to pick yourself up, dust off your hands, which feel so sore, so worn by the responsibility of cleanliness and order, as you carry yourself and your needs upon your own back for all time, and leave for another day, another oh so tedious day of work, work and more work.

To be alone is to carry your choices in your heart, as each action feels like a mark against your conscience, forever tainting your soul with a consequences of each step in the world and beyond, but it means so much more to share such burdens with those around you, to know that, should you fall, another shall lift you up, for you to lean on in difficult times and to carry, also, when their heart feels to heavy to carry upon their own backs.