People, Places & Purgatory

IF HE

There once was a boy who cried out for attention. His cries would be met with tenderness at first, though soon that tenderness formulated into violence and neglect.

Rain on the tin roof hovering above the trailer, was the soothing sitter that rocked him to sleep.

Mental Retardation was on the table, as noted of the bystanders who sang but did not write the chorus.  Never was it reported!

Could it have been, the pool net may have captured the broken pieces of his mind. He'd bang his head against the wall until he knocked himself to sleep.

Slender, pimply naive the child became as he aged into an ignorant scared teenager.
Attention he sought, met with aggression and tattle tale games of hate. 
Other boys didn't like him because social norms stated that sissy boys are fucked.

Mental Retardation at this point considered homosexuality to be just that. The church deemed it still a sin in the nineties.

Hurt & Hate ensues the chorus of his young life. There wasn't any love for him at home either. He was meant to be a mule. Ignored and downplayed.

Adulthood would soon enhance his existence. People still lied.
People still treated him as a child.
People still hurt him over and over again.

He can't see between the lines. He isn't socially accepted. He wasn't fitting in because he didn't know how! Rejection and disappointment added layers to his wings.

A baby in a car seat.
That's how he seen himself, when he looked in the mirror. When he looked at authority, and when he reached out for love.
If he was good and polite, people would like him. If he was queer he'd be hated. If he was loud he'd be ignored. If he spoke up he'd be dismissed.

If he
If he
If he...

Staring at a blank profile, he tries to paint his face. The brushes are soft bristle headed. The colors worn and damp. Plastic scissors on hand to slow the harm and progress. Windows locked and out of reach. Fenced in yards where others like him roamed round and round and round.

Attention he created with his illness which was all his fault. He should've known better. He could've been something. He wasn't smart and now couldn't be a trusted fool.

Slivers of humanity leaked from his bones. The smell of hopps and barley etched on his breath. Moulded into ridicule smacked with disgust is how he now was!

A child playing a recorder was just how he sound. Outrageously played and overlooked as useless often thrown in the trash yet praised by teachers. There wasn't ever any hope.

Adulthood would come. His layers formed deep. Mental Retardation is now the norm. Mistreated, walked over and ignored were themes he'd never out interpret.

Round and round and round if only he...

The epiphany bride was always there. The pills and liquid were tried and tried again. Bug chased in hopes of dying by severe self harm. Well the child didn't know any better and he failed at that as well.

Emotional pain exemplified his brain body and soul.

Separations, disagreements, and rejections—real or perceived—are his triggers. He is highly sensitive to abandonment and being alone, which brings about intense feelings of anger, fear, suicidal thoughts and self-harm, and his very impulsive decisions.

Always still the child within, looking on at others as they merrily roll along. He sits in a coffee shop, a mall, a restaurant surrounded by people who don't care. He is always alone. Never understood and always judged and abandoned.

He loves himself. He loves his faith. Every night he seeks the sound of the rain that once sang him to sleep while locked away in a room with no love.

Would today be the day he'd say. Out loud to passers by. In the car as he smiles with uncertainty. His possession is his demon and riddled with exhaustion his mind tires and writes this.

Sometimes, the car doesn't start. Sometimes, the dishwasher breaks. Sometimes, we catch a cold. Sometimes, we run out of hot water. Sometimes, we have a bad day. While it helps to achieve acceptance and gratitude for these irritating annoyances, we don't have to process everything and figure out if it's in the scheme of things. -Nico

There once was a boy who cried for attention.