This is my normal.
Yelling, fighting, throwing.
This is my childhood.
When they’d say write about what makes you, you,
I’d write in the past.
I’d write what I was clutching onto,
Instead of what I was drowning in.
I write in past tense because I can never stand the present.
I feel small.
I don’t like sharing things that hurt,
Or re-living low moments.
I don’t accept sadness because I wouldn’t be able to come out of it if I did.
Someone once told me “You're an open book”
And I smiled, and thought about that second book,
The one with the black cover, and the chains wound round it.
Then I look at the open one,
with the shining yellow pages and the artificial bookmark.
It’s always easier to stand in the sun than to see in the dark.
And I’ve always taken the short-cut.