It's fourth period, English. Poem writing. It's kind of fun, I can manipulate words into dark, depressing stories, yet no one guesses that those stories are my life.
A rose grows.
Blooming a bright beautiful red.
Reaching for the sky,
Seeing days go by.
Petals opening.
Guarded by thorns.
A rose grows.
I am the rose. I remember growing up, I was like any other kid. Happy, energetic, carefree. I had a good outlook on life, and believed in reaching for the sky to achieve my goals. I had a few friends, and my parents who loved me, and kept me safe.
A rose is picked.
Taken from its home,
Torn from its safety.
Placed in a glass cage,
To be ogled at by others,
As its strength starts to fail.
A rose is picked.
I remember when people startled assuming I was gay. My classmates startled seeing me differently. My friends abandoned me. School wasn't safe to me anymore. Dad left and Mom turned abusive. No one did anything as I started pulling away from everyone, my happy self disappearing. At first I tried to stay optimistic, but eventually my resolve crumbled.
A rose wilts.
Once bright and vibrant,
Now dying, falling apart,
Petal by petal.
Colours fading.
Beauty gone.
A rose wilts.
I'm falling apart, if I'm not already as broken as I can get. Just a shell of the boy I once was.
"Alright, is everyone done?" Mrs. Cameron asks. She's a nice woman, my favourite teacher. "Please, trade poems with the person next to you. Look over your partner's poem and give them feedback. Things you like, think they should change."
The room is filled with chatter instantly as people turn to the people next to them, mostly their friends. No one sits next to me. Maybe I don't have to do this. I can just sit quietly and daydream. That would be nice.
Of course, it doesn't happen. I hear Mrs. Cameron talking with Aaron, and hear her tell him to work with me. I sigh, resting my head on my desk. The chair next to me is pulled back and Aaron sits down next to me.
"She told us to work together," he mutters, voice emotionless, not knowing I heard his conversation with the teacher.
When I glance at him, he gives me a tiny smile. I sigh again then sit up, silently pushing my paper towards him. I don't want to do this, but I try to keep my grades up. Then I have one good thing in my life, good grades. Aaron hands me his paper, then starts looking over mine.
If I'm being honest, I'm kind of surprised he wrote anything at all. And I'm even more surprised to see he actually put effort into writing the poem.
When the sun goes down,
And the moon awakens,
When no one's around,
That's when the lost get to play.
The lost are forgotten,
Hidden away from prying eyes.
Lost, never to be found.
They will never return.
"Jesus, this is depressing," Aaron murmurs. He glances at me, "I'm... Guessing it's about you?"
Slowly, I nod. "And... Yours is about you?"
He nods softly, then looks back at my paper. "I don't know what to say for feedback... It's really good."
"So's yours," I says quietly. "Though maybe instead of third person, you could use first. Instead of saying 'the lost', use 'I.'"
Aaron tilts his head, quickly looking over his poem.
He nods. "Yeah, I like that better."
Taking his pencil he quickly changes the words. Now the lines read: That's when I get to play, and I am forgotten.
I understand what he means in the poem. He's talking about who he really is, behind his 'mask,' as he puts it. That side of him is hidden away, forgotten. And he doesn't think he'll get to be himself out in public.
In a way, we are the same. Trying to fit in.
Trying to be free.
⚬⚬⚬
I gasp, trying to get enough air to my burning lungs.
Mom's hands around my throat squeeze tighter, completely cutting off my air supply. My fingers claw weakly at hers, but she doesn't let go. The fact that I know she's mostly sober makes it hurt even more. She really doesn't want me. No one does, no one cares about me.
Well, Aaron kind of does. I don't know if that's enough though.
Suddenly she releases me. I gasp, taking big gulps of air. I jump when she lightly grinds on me. Fear shoots through me faster than lightning. My body tenses, freezing in place, my eyes wide.
"Uh, don't make that face," she mutters, slapping me harshly then getting off me. "It's such a turn off. Next time try to look like you want it."
She stalks out of my room, muttering about me being weak, and slams the door closed, leaving me curled up on the bed in the dark. My fear doesn't go away, and I feel tears start to fall. She wouldn't really do that to me, would she? She probably would.
I sob quietly, knowing to not make noise. I don't want her to come back. I bury my face in my pillow, and let the sobs take over.
I'm scared. I feel alone. I don't know if my life will ever get better.
I don't know if I want to keep going.