Why I Write


United States
38° 0' 30.168" N, 121° 47' 57.5412" W

I was six when mother, golden hair and bright eyes, said

Angels were watching over me

And that I could do anything and I could be anyone

Nothing, no one, would hurt me

It was engraved in cracked sidewalks and watered down litanies

That I would find some kindness in all that I meet


I was seven when sweet angel, guardian of her own, didn't know any better

Promises, promises, I'm sorry she says, for reasons I did not yet understand

Why broken things still find ways to break and spill from her chapped lips

I could not comprehend, but I could feel, as I let her embrace me

Sharing this semblance of comfortable silence as I hid in the valley of her arms


I was seven years old, dirty face and sun kissed skin

When I found out that promises and people

Aren’t forever, and neither is love


I was eight, scabbed knees and cholorine hair

When I first heard someone speak the word of hope and salvation

So desperate, I was, learning with leaden arms that I was too heavy a soul to save

I wanted to patch these wounds with scabbed fingers while I choked back secrets

Trying to rub the cob webs of heavy guilt and heavy shame out of my eyes 

But it was impossible; my hands were dirty still.


I was ten when the rivers dried up and nothing leaked out

Except the yearning in my heart for something to fill the void beneath the layers

Of cracked skin, to show someone who would understand

With easy gentle hands and kind irises

What each scar meant, and how it came to be


I was fifteen when I had my first, real kiss and I could not tell anyone

Why it wasn't special, but that it was different because it was the first  anyone

Had ever asked for permission before


Today I am thousands of days old and four years have passed since then

Nineteen years it has taken to fix up my heart until it was something decent and pretty

Until grime didn’t litter my vision and impair my judgement for hope lost and hope gained


For longest time I thought it was weak and I was weak

Holding onto a hurt for so long it became engraved into my very being

Achored in it, ship wrecked, and stranded at sea

I fell in love with melancholy, but I decided we could not be close lovers


I am the love I never had

The truth I never gained

The hurt I never healed

And the shame I never shared,

Until now

I write because words are a remedy to what our soul cannot express.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741