A Theoretical Thesaurus
Long ago, before my earth was round, the light of my room made me feel even more depressed than I already was, a low flickering of the lamp unbetraying me, my mother's bed reminding me of my shortened childhood, having to grow old at the age of eight.
The crunch of the sour apples from the apple tree in my backyard and the stench of my angry ideas about making the world fair while my hope slowly shone, deadly in the broken bottom of my kiddie pool. I loved being different.
I don’t really want to be different anymore.
I would stay silent to protect myself instead of speaking up, speaking out in order to...In order to do nothing.
I cried over the little things but stayed silent over the big ones.
In the broken bottom of my kiddie pool, I pretended to be sick in order to go home because I was scared of what people would think, and hating myself for such a long time and what can I say? Old habits die hard.
I don’t really want to be different anymore.
Because cancer can be lethal but the doctors don't tell you that words can be lethal too, and they don't tell you that broken people break other people so they don't feel lonely.
They don't tell you that even though your friends pity you, they won't do anything when the panic attacks get so bad that you can't control your screaming mind anymore and it isn't even mind over matter anymore, its blood over water. They don't tell you that when your mom is sick and dying of this lethal mix of radiation, cancer and pneumonia, you can't do anything except feed her chicken noodle soup and pray to a god that you don't even believe in. They don't tell you that when you're adopted and your second mother is dying that you feel even more worthless than before and all you can do is scream and hate the people around you even though they had done nothing.
Why did you love me even after I told you I hated you and why did my eyes burn with unforgiven possibilities and why did my chest feel as if it were empty when you were not there and why did I deserve this?
I don’t really want to be different anymore.
Because in the broken bottom of my kiddie pool, sometimes I loved you, but mostly I loved the idea of you.
And why did you leave one of your daughters' to her own thoughts?
I am your consequence.
Copyright © Marika Sayers | Year Posted 2016
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