Xxxiii

Every time I pick up a pen I think failure. I think addicted to a blade shackled to a bottle captivated by little pills that hold my sanity in their capsules, but today I want to write strength. I want to write beautiful. I want to write Go ahead and try me again. God made me more than a conqueror. Because if dependence upon a blade makes me weak, I wonder how I ever had the strength to get up off my knees at the age of five when all I wanted to do was lay down and die. I’m writing courage because even though he defiled my body I survived. I’m sick of writing how much I hate what I’ve become sick of blaming myself for the abominations that you and I performed. I forget… was it me or was it you? Did I poison your youth, too? Did I carve regret into your skin when you were just a little kid? Regardless, today I carve perfection because that’s what shows in my reflection. I’ll trade you shoes but won’t trade scars because most are written on my heart and not for one second do you deserve to have what brought me through this pain. I hope the piece you stole from me dances on your grave. It must have been those bottles that ruined me, right? Not those visits I received so many times during the night? But if finding escape through a drink makes me distorted, I wonder how I ever managed to turn perverted kisses into defiance and taboo touches into faith that one day, not I, but God, would condemn you to your fate. I’m writing forgive so I can look at you and know that I am the better man. I’m writing confidence so the next one of you that comes along will be meeting my backhand.