When I was four, I died.
And for the life of me, I could not be alive.
When Its light brown eyes turned into dark moonless nights, It still shone bright.
And when my hands moved in Its light, It pulled me in.
It breathed on me and found Its way in.
And when I trembled, crumbled, kneeled, at Its feet, It smiled.
It caught me by the hair and drug me out.
When I die, I will miss the way water slipped down my fingers in a mess of intervals clearer than rain water.
I will miss the sound that my feet made when I die, letting me know I was alive.
I don’t want to feel scared
like I’m doing this all on my own.
I can’t forget my mother’s infectious tears when the ghost of his past found its way into my pocket, stained with the dreaded acronym “ILY.”
remember when I asked her why she didn’t love me, and she said, “I do” but, more so, I can’t forget when she took it back.
Why should I cry for a woman who wishes she, at the age of fourteen, aborted me?
I cannot forget the time I was stabbed in the eye because my A’s looked too much like U’s.
The way all I felt could be captured in less than four minutes of lyrics that I will miss when I die.
I SHUT MY EYES
I remember not being able to choose between what God wanted and what I felt. I never liked church with its high ceilings and holy hypocrites.
I remember being baptized at the Mormon church of Latter Day Saints; even though I’m not Mormon.
I remember the way birds chirped when I woke up and how the light hit my skin, rolling over my bed when I opened my eyes.
I remember being alone.
I remember the sound of broken glasses, dark rooms, and muffled screams.
I remember feeling like I didn’t belong here or anywhere to anyone or anything.
I remember never being happy.
I remember pushing people away.
I REMEMBER HOW EASY IT WAS, AND I REMEMBER WANTING
to write about the scary stuff that took place in that old washed up house whose face I can’t remember but live less than a mile away from.
to write about that house’s blue door that from afar seemed off-purple but up close echoed blue-green.
to write about that house’s long dark hallway that seemed to never end; the one whose whitest rooms were its darkest—the ones that cradled the memories that forever changed my life, but did nothing for his.
BECAUSE I CAN’T FORGET
the days when no didn’t exactly mean no because if anything, it meant yes.
BUT NO, NO
because no meant STOP.
But in his eyes, it meant YES.
And that made all the difference between his fault and mine.
AND IT WAS MY FAULT.
I remember being told that it was my fault.
BECAUSE I REMEMBER
The first time I picked up that razor, and the way it glided across my skin like ice.
I REMEMBER WANTING
to feel anything that would make the pain of not being enough, enough.
BUT NEVER WANTING TO BE ANYONE ELSE BUT ME.
I REMEMBER WANTING
to write about being alone and not wanting help for what I was.
I remember wishing that I couldn’t remember anything.
TO MAKE A MOTHER, who doesn’t even like me, LOVE ME.
to feel like I’m here, right now, talking to you.
To swallow every pill that my grandmother’s cabinet had to offer.
To make a gash so deep, I wouldn’t wake up this time.
to feel something, anything.
When I was four, I died in a room of lies.
I shut my eyes, but I will never be alive.