I want to thank the pillows For all the screams they soaked, I want to thank the towels For all the tears they cloaked. I want to thank my throat For all the frogs it hid, And my little palm For the kind rest It bid. Thank you to the flowers for The short escape they gave, A thank you to the rain that Washed clean your grave. Special thanks to the moon and The light it lent, As well as the stars and Their magnificent scent. I want to thank my shoulders For carrying such pain, And both of my legs for Not breaking in disdain. I am thankful for the walls That stood every punch Without spraining one bone, Without making me crunch. How come the walls took care of me more Thank you ever did or that I could hope for? Thank you, my little eyes, I know It wasnt easy to see, The less with which He stopped loving me. And my little heart, I have nothing to say. I failed you tremendously. In every possible way. But you still beat, I hear. And for that I am most sorry my dear.
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I feel like I have always been old. I dont have one memory of being a child. Even when I was four, I felt the same way I feel now. They say you meet the world once, when you are a child, and the rest is always a memory. But what does that mean to people who were born old? Punked by some universal woodoo, mumbo-jumbo, trick or treat, Benjamin Button bullshit? What did the world look like to me when I was of little earthly age? The first thing I remember when I look so far back is sitting on my uncles lap and singing songs while tapping hands. I remember him taking me to his football games. He would always hide me behind the goal, so if the ball comes, the net will protect me. And I would sit there all the time, watching football like it were Teletubbies. He would always carry me on his shoulders. We held hands upfront. And the next chronological memory is when I woke up in the middle of the night and saw him putting his jacket on. I asked where he was going, he said to the store and I
You cant prove something that doesnt exist, right? Its not there, so... How can you be aware of it? But I am constantly aware of your absence. I wake up with it, I brush my teeth with it, I clean my face with it, it sits with me at breakfast... It follows me. It appears through smallest of cracks; it hides between keyboard buttons, it stares at me at traffic lights, it stings with the drops of rain, it gives me my change back at the gas station and asks foe my ID at the doctor's office. Even on my best of days, I am constantly painfully aware of your absence. So, how does that make sense? How can you be followed by something thats not there? And why does this last so long? Why dont you leave me alone? You pesky shadow. You unfaithful stray. Annoying ghost. I find myself feeling horrible when I am happy. I cant even enjoy anything anymore. I keep seeking company from people. I am letting them tire me out. I am letting them exhaust me. I am letting them chew me, inside and out, swa
Dragos told a story about how his first memory is when his mom smacked him across the head. And how the first thing he thought was "im not gonna cry, i be damned if i let you see me cry." And then she smacked him again. And he still didnt cry. Now he noticed how his mother got really mad. Because, how dare he not cry. So she put her hand into "backhand" and smacked him for the third time with all the bones that it had in it. Thats when he started strategizing. Thats when he realized he better cry now, or else she will never stop until she sees that she can hurt him. I remember all the times my dad used to beat me up. And how I refused to cry. I discovered early on that I have the power of dissociation. He would make me go on my own and grab a stick with which he will beat me. I always grabbed the biggest and thickest one. My little sister would get one and break it into millions of pieces so it gets loose and wiggly and useless. And I would grab the biggest one. I a