you’re six years old,
the playground ladder looks nice enough to fall off of.
The bars are solid,
you can almost see the attention reflecting off the chipped paint of the second bar.
You know that if you go high enough,
the fall should be just as loud to gather the students from the slides over.
Maybe after that fall, a scrap in the knee and a dramatic cry -not too harsh though-
the compilation of such noises will harmonize into a beautiful song:
Love me Please.
If the cry is high enough,
maybe it’ll make up for the ground below,
it's a little rough.
You’re seven years old,
your cries don’t attract the crowd like it used to.
You have to think of something better!
So you write yourself notes.
Maybe if you have a note scribbled in tainted coal,
exemplifying the hatred you have for yourself, someone will believe it too.
Someone will grant you attention.
You’re eight years old,
your love for attention has fed yourself the daily necessities for living.
You don’t quite understand how communication functions unless it benefits you.
You were a plant in need of its water, of its sunlight. You withered.
So you dug your hole.
Allowed others to blast their seeds of blessings and love.
Your soil rejected their watering.
Your plant’s distasteful movements failed to stay internal.
So you dug your hole a little deeper.
You stapled their roots to your soil.
Eight hasn’t been so kind to you.
Maybe the sun hasn’t reached you yet.
So you shifted some more.
The ground erupted with weeds
as you pretended your insecure tendencies weren’t strangling you.
You’re nine years old,
you've come to an inevitable conclusion.
It's the hate you give yourself,
that sucks the moisture out your plant the most.
Nine years later,
sometimes you still think,
maybe you shoud have dug your hole a little deeper.