This title is a cliche

Bruised knuckles, splayed and broken fingers; I have dislocated my family. These long car rides are too much for me, Jesse, so sing me to sleep while I stare out at the roadside and see the creeping light down on the asphalt and the cul de sac shimmering. Hell is cold and the north is winter. Don’t let it in.

Don’t let it in.

We think we’re enlightened just cause we hide our racism, cause we inherited good libraries and our parents’ superiority complexes. But mostly we just don’t give a fuck about the people we make sad and can’t be asked to wait our turn to speak cause we are just waiting our turn to speak.

Nobody I know had a functioning family. Most of my friends are mentally ill. The only reason I’m not is that I don’t like doctors; always trying to stab you with something or rat you out to helicopters. I’d explain it away with a wave of my hand, cause I love them but there are some things that my parents are just never going to understand.

A lot of what I went through would have been suitable for social justice, if they didn’t have books to sell with identity politics on the dust jackets. I would have taken their endorsement, but I guess upon reflection I am better off for having learned to live without it. One thing I am not is better off for the way that everybody tries to shame my body for having what I would just consider to be scars, but they consider stains.

Urban dictionary only has one entry under my name and it doesn’t describe me. Because of this I spent six years in total silence. Meanwhile what began as an overflow of guilt and hate became a way of staying in control and making myself okay in the face of daily humiliations and waves of escalating trauma symptoms, suffocating me with every breath and pouncing upon every moment’s rest.

Then before you know it, I’m not the one in control anymore; no, it’s the other way around. Some kind of irony that I should find myself dying from something that was always about survival. But what could I do? Just lie to the doctors and try to conceal what had brought me to see them and ride through the campus in the back of an ambulance?

If nothing else, it would come out when emergency services contacted my emergency contact about forcibly subjecting me to what is essentially prison. Then you know how the rumors would spread that I just did it all for attention. How fucked up is it that I would have rather bled to death in my bathroom than have everyone believe I attempted suicide to cry for help?

I remember both times that’s happened cause I’ve got two gashes on my leg that healed as thick as nickles. The second time my ex military friend was on hand to fix shit but it still got infected. It’s the gauze that gets the infection in. Next time I won’t make that mistake again.

I feel gay every time I come out of the closet and the range of reactions is roughly the same.

Thing is, I really did try to fly from a nearby bridge to my childhood home one time when I was low on life, and no one even knew that it was on my mind until several weeks down the line. Plus all the people most involved still don’t know about it at all, even to this day. So what I’m trying to say is that this isn’t about anyone’s sympathy. I just want to be able to wear anything else apart from hoodies and be accepted.

The shrine I built you in my room is both an entrance and an exit wound.
I trashed it three months after you left and built one for something else
now all that’s left of you is the one inside my head.
I’d better turn that table too, soon.
You said that before long you’d be wed to school and a future
and I’d be divorced by college.

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