Infinity Years Old

At 1 year old, I said my first word. “Mama”, I said in bold, thinking I was already old.

 

At 3 years old, my parents told me goodnight stories; stories of dreams,

Pirates and thieves, lovely kisses and golden rings, brave warriors, 

Integrity, family, passion and honor and love.

 

At 5 years old, I had learned to read, too well for my age,

I read them goodnight stories from books with worn pages,

The same stories that seemed to be ageless, stories of fantasy,

Poverty and riches, romance and treasures, heroes,

Integrity, family, passion and honor and love.

 

At 6 years old, I was reading chapter books, stories

That made me proud, stories that taught me that

Life doesn’t take place within ten pages. I

Went on adventures, adventures to win

Battles and find gold, soul mates and

Integrity, family, passion and honor and love.

 

At 8 years old, I began to grow old, daddy

Didn’t seem to love me anymore. I wrote

In diaries with messy handwriting, and tried

To lose myself in a world of

Integrity, family, passion and honor and love.

I found love in stories with happy endings,

Stories that didn’t say what my head did, which said

Lies, separation, carelessness and betrayal and hate.

 

At 13 years old, I was withered and cold,

Couldn’t bear what my heart had to hold.

Unexplained sadness, trauma, and lies,

Reality I couldn’t look in the eyes.

I knew it was fate, strong hands

And bruises left along my tiny waist

Answers left behind written words,

Those stories, in italic and bold,

Love kept me in the most painful of holds,

It hurt when they threw all of those stones.

Trying to forget, lost people and brokenness,

Bruises, red marks, broken hearts, and

Lies, separation, carelessness and betrayal and hate.

 

At 15 years old, I found hope in poetry,

In boys that would never notice me. I

Dreamed of love letters and trailer parks,

Lipstick stains on scruffy cheeks,

Underage kisses in empty bars,

Love made in shitty cars. I

Read words from men who would

Know how to treat me, from

Women who were happy, and

Wondered when I’d come clean,

Wondered when they’d meet me,

Wondered when I’d fell in love with sad stories,

Dark poetry, my lack of creativity,

With empty bottles and blackened hearts,

Misery, invisibility, bruises and bullshit and broken parts.

 

At 16 years old, I wanted to write

Anything that would tear me apart.

I wanted to make something more dreary,

Something to make my eyes less teary.

I wrote poetry, about being father’s little pearl,

How it faded and drowned me, how

He’s the one that pushed me, the first one

That broke me. I missed

Fairytales and happy endings,

Messages that would float to you in bottles,

Armor that could protect you,

Heroes that wouldn’t let you

Drown.

People that wouldn’t let you

Down. With

Misery, invisibility, bruises and bullshit and broken parts.

 

At 17 years old, I passed time

With my poems,

Messy and jagged to cut me,

Poetry in the blood I would bleed,

Poetry in the love I would need,

God, would someone just love me,

Tragedy and long nights and slit wrists

Poetry could breathe, poetry could hiss,

Comfort in the darkness I should never miss,

Words can’t express the things that I did,

Memories and loneliness and blurry eyes,

Sharpening knives for a battle I shouldn’t fight,

Fuck reality that made me lose my mind,

Nobody loved people of my type,

Not a princess, not a prize,

Just fat, ugly, and unkind,

Destructive, lifeless, ink and pages and sharp objects.

 

At 18 years old, I cried

Having wasted years of my life

I had lived in a castle with dreams of romance

To a cage with no key and destructive plans

I’m a ghost, empty and cold

Who writes words of things that I’d never spoke

With themes of heartache, suicide, and fate

I wish I was young to belong in this place

I had legends and royalty, victims and games,

Life has turned bleak, I can’t be saved anyway

Fingers down my throat and blood down a drain,

Tell me, how did I end up this way?

No sex in strange cars or sneaking into bars

Pain makes it hard to find shelter, I scar

Numbers, visions, anxiety-ridden,

Sleeplessness, my heart keeps caving in,

Tears, I wish I hadn’t made it this far

Insomnia, bones, fear and suicide and done.

 

I guess that I’m not a little kid anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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