I feel my body sink into the cushion
Of the seat that holds me tight,
And it’s comforting
The way the pillowy simplicity
Fills every dent and curve
like I am some delicate object
Threatening to throw myself
On the concrete
And break myself into a million pieces.
You tell me to be happy,
That they’re taking good care
Of the house that taught me
How to sew myself back together
But I cant seem to help but notice
The yellow isn’t quite so sunny
Anymore.
I want to hate them,
I desperately want to let my brain destroy them
For destroying me,
But I can’t.
I can’t let the fact that
They let the weeds consume
My mother’s rose garden
Rip me into pieces
Like they are threatening to.
The raindrops pull and gather
with eachother like a choir of
teardrops
on my window
and I can't help but wish
I still owned what was
so rightfully mine.
Life has taught me that
It's easier to get beat up and broken
than to stay strong--
but I wanr to steal my dark days away
and hold on to them in a treasure chest,
so I can go back to the darkness
and relive those storms once more.
I can still see the crack in the siding,
where I had kicked my first soccer ball
hoping to not be a disappointment.
If only I could see how disappointing I'd become
maybe I never would have tried so hard
to make him proud.
He never was, though.
The paintings I painted,
the music I made,
everything I had thought was beautiful
turned out to be one big disappointment.
The window to my old room is naked,
naked like a tree in the winter,
and it's frosted over like they were keeping something.
Maybe they thought
keeping me away would
make things better
but the deep, depressing longing
I have
to lay in the clouds of grass again
overrides
every temptation I have to leave.
To run away from
the house that taught me
everything WOULDN'T be okay,
and that it was perfectly
okay
to not be okay.
Every lesson I've learned
through sadness
can be traced back to that house,
and it strangely makes me
happy.
Happy to know
that broken hearts can be mended
just like the brokenness of that house.
With some love,
lots of love,
a little attention,
a little affection,
it would be good as new--
just like me.
With love and attention,
and affection and recognition,
and hands to guide me
in the right direction,
one day,
some day,
I'll be new.
But new doesn’t always mean better,
because my new place
doesn’t even have
the right to be called a home--
because it doesn’t mend the brokenness,
with love and comfort
like the old one did.
Maybe, for once in my life,
old was
new
instead.