For Richard.
2011
These days are hard, I am singing a song of melancholy, telling myself, "No, I am not lonely."
But I am not sane either. I am no saint, I have carved my name in the milestone of grave that leads to hell. I have been misled, I have been ridiculed, I have been judged, told off for who I am.
I want to listen to an ode, even if it is not a song when you would play next to me, as if the silence led to a storm.
You belittled my silence, mistook it for the source of anguish you bestow on me. As if you carved your name with a knife on my heart. With every strife, I lost a part of me.
The storm in you raised when we were seven, mistaking life for heaven. I remember vividly the start. The doorway to the doom of my innocence. Like a storm you rushed, filling in the silence around me with your many voices.
Voices telling me, "Die."
Voices telling me, "You are disgusting."
But my best friend hugged me saying, "No, you matter. You are the best person I ever had."
If you were the storm, he were the sun. If he were the sun, I would be the cloud. I always block the sunshine.
I vividly remember the parts of my life in which I hugged myself, talked to the rain and snaked around innocence. It's almost destructive how I remember vividly the pain, the hurt.
Seven. I had no toys, I had my innocence. I crumbled and with that rose, a new person who had rose to be buried alive.
Infliction. You inflicted me with your words, raised your hands on me, pulled on my hair and told me in the face, "Go, fuck yourself."
I believe I am more than what you and they say. I believe in me. But the voices, the disaster inside me disbelieves and hence, I slip from and against a fine line of faith and fear.
You were a storm and I were the earth until the ground in me shook and took a form of draught. I crumbled to rise to be a cloud. I gave away rain, I always have. I hate myself for that.
And so do you.
Yours never,
Sam.
