repeat after me:
Parents, suck and hands in the wrong places, suck.
remembering those two sucks the most.
I had a bad Sunday and a fair share of badly timed Fridays.
Let’s go back a while
You see, I was traumatized very young.
I healed my scars, hurt myself again and hoped not to break down again. My legs stopped shaking and I started leaving the bed. I trusted, learned to hold someone’s hand. Stopped screaming in my sleep. Stopped sleepwalking and pissing on my sheets. I forgave, time and time again. I got hurt with my heart spilling open for everyone to see. I clawed my nails in the dirt day and night trying my best to overcome my mountain. For years, I slipped and fell to the bottom and had to pick myself up and rise again.
Sometimes I flew to the top and got shot down but I rose back up.
I did it all, summer after spring after fall.
I have been through it all.
and that Sunday knocked my mountain out like a pile of salt,
I spoke a few words of my past and then my tongue couldn’t stop rolling, the replay button got stuck and I found myself as a five-year-old with hands in the wrong places. hands that are not mine. hands that aren’t my parents but they weren’t there to stop it.
The remembrance was a lump in my throat. A new adams apple.
It’s pointless to climb anything anymore because all is left for me is to climb out of the gates of hell. Though, I think I’m bound to stay.
Repeat after me:
Parents, suck. Hands in the wrong places suck.
Remembering those two sucks the most.