The Tainted

Vagrant

For me the worst part of living on the streets was my hope. They say hope is what keeps you going but for me it was tearing me apart. Everyday thousands of people would walk by me each with their own jobs, problems and families. Their own lives. And each day I would convince myself that maybe one day I could have that, and each time I woke up with blood on my hands I found my dreams shattered. So after a while, I began to look for ways to distract myself, to keep myself from resorting to hope. Luckily for me, most places I visited had a library, somewhere warm and quiet where I could stay until it was time for me to return to the streets. For a few hours I could pretend that I belonged somewhere. That I was as safe as the books on their shelves. 

I have so many favourite books, I've yet to read one I don't like honestly, but there's one I look for everywhere I go. The first time I went into a Library was in a small town I've long since forgotten the name, it was light yet cosy and I spent at least an hour reading titles before I had a small pile of books in my arms. I found a small chair far from the front desk and began reading. The first book on my pile was a collection of poems by Sylvia Plath. I turned each page page carefully, letting every word sink into my memory. I came across one poem that has stuck in my head ever since. It was called 'I'm Vertical'

I am vertical

but I would rather be horizontal

I am not a tree with my roots in the soil

Sucking up minerals and motherly love

So that each march I may gleam into leaf

Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed

Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted

Unknowing I must soon unpetal

Compared with me, a tree is immortal

And a flower head not tall, but more startling

And I want the one's longevity and the others daring.

__

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,

The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odours

I walk among them, but none of them are noticing

Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping

I must most perfectly resemble them -

Thoughts gone dim.

it is more natural for me, lying down.

Then the sky and I are in open conversation

And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:

then the trees may touch me for once and the flowers have time for me.

I could see myself in her words, each line a mirror of her misery reflecting mine. Both feeling lost in a world that only has time for the most and the best. Forgotten among tall buildings and more captivating smiles. 

I continued pouring through the pages until the Librarian finally built up enough courage to ask me to leave. And now each town I visit, I search for the name Sylvia Plath on the shelves of the local library hoping to loose myself once again into her stark truth and honest darkness. And each time I throw myself into a new fairy tale or sweet fantasy until I have to leave, dragging my feet once more on the cold concrete, scuffing my already worn soles.