All The Things I Didn't Say

Youth

6: Youth
Author: Tommy Fawcett

I realise now that I was too young.
I was a stranger sprung like jumping on a trampoline
to a life no kid should have to live,
so I fought the spring
but that made it worst.
I cried at night for voices that never heard the pain
which came from wanting a knight,
not in shining armour but in a glinting smile and soft hands
which never hurt me.
Which never pulled my hair or slapped my face,
which never pinched my groin
with long sharp nails,
a sword which tore from my pelvis all the way to my heart,
and nestled feverishly in my mind
until what I thought would be the end of time.
I was too young to feel so dumb,
to think the things I thought:
The problems were tiredness and angst
were the things I fought;
I craved, so willingly.
But more so did I crave my mother's love.
And I called out for it, I did,
but more so was I silent, bidding on the parts of me that'd go next,
not expecting the light at the end of the tunnel
to get any nearer,
but rather to always be there, at the end,
and never here.
It is like this is a book that's meant to say
your broken heart is cradled
by both of your hands,
and someday you'll learn to patch it up.
You won't be so sitting scarily on scarring nails, you'll shift,
and as you do so does the world around you,
it fragments your space and lets light in through glaciers of glossy lace.
It becomes roses, crystallised with dew.
Now it's my cue
to understand.