Anthology of Me and other various poems

used to

i used to hate water
i used to hate the deep lakes i'd visit as a child
i used to hate the dark unknown depths, for only God could see and know what was below the waves
i used to hate the water, due to an inability to swim, and an affinity for finding myself waking up at the hands of a stranger,
laid on my back and making sure i'm breathing right
(i cant remember how many times i've almost drowned)
(it'd probably be more if i hadn't stopped going swimming)

i used to hate fire
hate the smell
the embers floating up, up, up
drifting and landing on clothes that i'd promptly brush away
i used to hate the smoke, which always seemed to be blowing in my face, no matter which side of the fire pit i sat on
used to hate the heat, overwhelming and sticky, clinging like a wet shirt after an unexpected rain
(except on cold winter evenings, tucked up by the fireplace and wrapped in cozy blankets)
(except on chilly summer nights, toasting marshmallows with cousins and grandparents, laughing and talking about the day's adventures—)
(it was usually fishing, but i hated the water, so i didn't go.)
(i wasn't any good, anyways)

i used to hate the dark,
how the monsters would lurk in the corner of my vision,
skulls and eyes and all sorts of hideous creatures appearing underneath closed eyelids
i used to hate the dark,
and how it seemed to consume everything around it, leaking into the dim glow of the owl on the wall, leeching the light from the room and leaving an empty, hollow chill in its place
(i was much more creative then, had a large, expansive, unstoppable imagination)
(the nightmares come in the day, now)

i used to hate the night,
afraid of the unknown
(funny, hm?)
(how humans seem so fragile and frightened)
(so unprepared for what cannot be seen, what cannot be predicted or planned for)
i used to hate the night,
and the fear that would grip my heart, causing clenched fists and gritted teeth,
causing thoughts of i wish i had more keys, so i could have a full hand of them,
thoughts of if i'm quiet and i'm quick, i won't be noticed,
(now i clench my keys everywhere, aware of every set of eyes that follows me too long, that lingers a moment too much)

i used to hate the cold,
and would bundle up against it,
desperate attempts to keep the chill outside and the warmth inside
(but when the cold seeps in, creeps up on you, silently follows on the heels of your shadow and clutches you (with a tight, frozen grip) when you least expect, what can one do to protect oneself?)
(i've become numb to the chill)
(frostbitten, maybe)

i used to hate the noise,
used to cover my ears and pray for silence,
used to cry when it was too loud, a cacophony of sound ringing in my ears,
a shrill tone, unceasing, unrelenting, unending in its drone
(now the silence stretches on)
(no music can block it out, no fan or voice or rain)
(i scream inside my head in hopes that it will stop)

(it doesn't)