CREATING CONSTELLATIONS

C H E E R S

This is for the one's who were forced into adulthood,
never getting the chance to be a kid.
Never getting the chance to run in the rain,
play in the sand,
spill milk without crying,
fall asleep without fear.

For the one's who cried themselves to sleep each night
praying to a god that they didn't even believe in,
desperately trying to find the strength to go on.

This is for the one's with broken wings
and a stolen halo,
for the one's who forgot how to fly.

For the one's who feared coming home from school,
the one's who covered up their bruises with long sleeves and make-up,
and crawled under the bed at night because that was the only place they felt okay.
For the one's who only felt safe
behind a door, a mask, a blanket, the bottom of a bed,
the one's who only felt safe when they were hiding.

This is for the one's who were afraid of the dark,
the one's who could only fall asleep if the light was burning in the hall.
The one's who were friends with the monsters underneath their bed
because they were kinder
than the monsters in their homes,
and in their heads.

For the one's who had to sit on the lap
of someone who threatened them,
berated them,
touched them.
The one's who were too young to understand;
understand why it was happening,
and why they would cry and scream
but still no one responded to their pain.

This is for the one's who lost their childhood innocence
to an impure caress,
to dirty eyes,
to private parts,
to rough hands and razor blades.
The one's who blame themselves
for everything everything everything.

This one is for you,
you there with the big blood shot eyes,
the shaky hands,
and the dirty fingernails.

For you when you take a bath
and you breathe in as hard as you can and
submerge yourself under water,
in hopes that you can stay down long enough
to never come back up again,
except when your corpse floats to the top.

For you,
when you lay the sharp edge of a razor blade vertical
to the biggest vein on your wrist,
and think about how easy it would be to just cut.
For you when tears pour from your swollen eyes,
and you put the blade down on the counter.
For you when you curse yourself
for being too weak to go through with it,
again. 

For you when you feel like you can't breathe.
And when you decide you breathe best
when you stop breathing altogether.

For you, 
you who wants to forget,
you who wants to "sleep it off".
For you when you pour your bottle of Ambien 
out onto your shaking palm
and you stare at all the little pills,
knowing that you have enough to go to sleep
and never wake up again.
For you when you put your palm up to your mouth,
ready to swallow every single pill,
only to stop
because you have to go to work tomorrow,
and who will feed your cat in the morning?
Who will tell your best friend to remember to finish her homework,
and who will drive your little brother to band practice?
This one is for you 
when you put the pills back in the bottle,
and then curse yourself all over again
for being
so
fucking
weak.

This one is for you;
for living day after day in this hell that feels ice cold.

For you, putting those pills back in their bottle,
not because you are weak,
but because you are needed,
and you know you have to continue to see at least one more tomorrow.

For you, taking the blade off your wrist,
and putting it back in its hiding spot,
not because you are weak,
but because you are brave enough to hang onto your life for one more day.

For you, bringing yourself up and out of the water
not because you can't hold your breath any longer.
You know you could stop breathing forever.
But because you remember what it was like to be forced
into holding your breath,
and you would rather live to see another day
than feel like you are suffocating all over again.
And for you, because secretly,
you want to keep breathing, at least
for a little bit longer.

This one is for you,
for us,
for the children raised on hatred
and broken beer bottles
and cigarette ashes
and razor blades and private parts and violation and sweat and fists and black-blue bruises and tears and shame
and regret.

This one's for us,
the children who were forced to grow up too fast,
and were never once given permission
to look back.

This one is for us,
for saying, "fuck it," at those who told us we needed permission.
Fuck it to people who don't allow us to be ourselves.
Fuck it to forgetting about the past, 
and fuck it to letting that past define our future.

Here's to looking back,
here's to starting over,
here's to healing.

This one's for us.