Six years old. "Watch out!" she said.
Green carpet. Red chairs. White powder.
Neurones connect the dots from V to F. They did it wrong.
Seven years old. "What's that?" he asked.
Pink terror drips down to blue carpet. Green dress. Same room.
"Not blood," they confirm. At this stage I still don't understand.
Eight years old. "Look there," she said.
I raise my head. And fear and fear
And don't step there for years and years
For now I know just what it means.
I'm stuck here now. It makes me scream.
Ten years old. "What's wrong?" she said.
I bow my swimming head and retch
And nought comes up but fear and stress
And god I wish I felt fear less.
She grabs a box. I climb the stairs
And wait for judgement, pale on haunted bed.
Eleven years old. "He did," they whisper.
Crowd moves back, my skin goes cold, spine shivers.
I see the aftermath and faint into her arms
THIS SHOULD NOT HARM ME!
Legs like jelly, I'm jealous of the sane.
Twelve years old. I'm out. He snorts.
I panic, panic, jump from plastic chair and hole
Myself up in the closet, how ironic now,
But then I just was scared.
"Come out!" she snaps, and snips, and makes me feel like shit.
I'm broken, I think to myself
Not knowing then of mental health.
Considered giving up the fight but nooses gag you, pills cause sickness,
No safe way to end my ignorant life.
Fourteen years old, I know the name
And know there's others just the same. I'm not alone.
There's logic; reason. I'm not broken, just misraised
With made-up words like cotton wool and never living to my full potential.
Then fifteen. I crack. I take the back way out
And end up in a room of fear and terror, panic, doom.
It's my worst nightmare brought to truth.
They raised me wrong! Their time is done!
The sights, they harm me. My lover calms me.
"OPEN THE CURTAINS!" scream the nurses.
Scared of sex yet fine with aspects
Of this place that morph my face into
An ocean of anxiety, thanks to society
And its love for spewing a tide of made-up words.
YOU ARE READING
to the devil, from a ghost.
Поэзияa mismatched anthology of poems I wrote over the course of the year that I wasn't really me. Very edgy but okay from a literary perspective.
