It's January and you woke up screaming
but no one heard you. You feel like you're
going to die. The pill bottle shifts from hand
to hand but the sound of your mother's
footsteps coming down the hallway
stop you.
It's February and you are watching the
couples holding hands and kissing from
your window and you feel like you'll never
be able to love anyone. You've begun to cry
during class and the friends that once stood
by you for all these years are now standing
with their heads casting downwards, finding
more interest in their brand new shoes
than helping you.
It's March and the snow's starting
to melt again and you can see the grass
again. Maybe if the tiniest organisms can
sprout after being buried for so long, maybe
you can too.
It's April and toddlers are splashing in
rain puddles, singing "April showers bring
May flowers!" You've begun to smile more
and more each day and your therapist took
your hand and told you that he is so, so
proud of you and everything you've overcome.
It's May and flowers have begun to spring
up in every corner. You take this as a
sign, that this is your future as well.
You're going to come a long way from
being a small, rotten seed under miles
and miles of dull concrete only to
become the most beautiful, colorful
flower in the middle of the sidewalk.
It's June and you've thrown away your
razors, your excess pills, and your
sadness. You can wear short sleeves
again and not feel the need to keep your
arms pressed against your side. You've stopped
faking being happy to your therapist.
It's July and it's your birthday.
Your father's gift to you is to keep
beer bottles from coming close
to his parted lips, but you know not
to trust this statement. You won't give your
father the satisfaction of watching you
fall for his tricks again.
It's August and you're back in school.
The friends that you had from last
year have all left and you're sitting
alone at your lunch table but you've never
felt happier. You've always been afraid
of people watching you but today
you smile at everyone who catches
your eye.
It's September and your therapist
tells you that this is your last
appointment. He gives you a small
book of poetry and a CD full of
"grand music" that he says to listen
to if you feel like you're going back
into that state of mind again.
It's October and the leaves are changing
and so are you.
It's November and you're sitting at
the dinner table with your family,
your aunt's casting you strange looks this
year because you take two scoops of
mashed potatoes instead of 1/4. Your
uncle nudges your shoulder and tells you
he's never been more proud of someone
in his life.
It's December and you're reflecting
on your year. You loved you.
You caught your life between your
fingertips and got it to stay. You let it
sing to you. You made it.
You are here.
but no one heard you. You feel like you're
going to die. The pill bottle shifts from hand
to hand but the sound of your mother's
footsteps coming down the hallway
stop you.
It's February and you are watching the
couples holding hands and kissing from
your window and you feel like you'll never
be able to love anyone. You've begun to cry
during class and the friends that once stood
by you for all these years are now standing
with their heads casting downwards, finding
more interest in their brand new shoes
than helping you.
It's March and the snow's starting
to melt again and you can see the grass
again. Maybe if the tiniest organisms can
sprout after being buried for so long, maybe
you can too.
It's April and toddlers are splashing in
rain puddles, singing "April showers bring
May flowers!" You've begun to smile more
and more each day and your therapist took
your hand and told you that he is so, so
proud of you and everything you've overcome.
It's May and flowers have begun to spring
up in every corner. You take this as a
sign, that this is your future as well.
You're going to come a long way from
being a small, rotten seed under miles
and miles of dull concrete only to
become the most beautiful, colorful
flower in the middle of the sidewalk.
It's June and you've thrown away your
razors, your excess pills, and your
sadness. You can wear short sleeves
again and not feel the need to keep your
arms pressed against your side. You've stopped
faking being happy to your therapist.
It's July and it's your birthday.
Your father's gift to you is to keep
beer bottles from coming close
to his parted lips, but you know not
to trust this statement. You won't give your
father the satisfaction of watching you
fall for his tricks again.
It's August and you're back in school.
The friends that you had from last
year have all left and you're sitting
alone at your lunch table but you've never
felt happier. You've always been afraid
of people watching you but today
you smile at everyone who catches
your eye.
It's September and your therapist
tells you that this is your last
appointment. He gives you a small
book of poetry and a CD full of
"grand music" that he says to listen
to if you feel like you're going back
into that state of mind again.
It's October and the leaves are changing
and so are you.
It's November and you're sitting at
the dinner table with your family,
your aunt's casting you strange looks this
year because you take two scoops of
mashed potatoes instead of 1/4. Your
uncle nudges your shoulder and tells you
he's never been more proud of someone
in his life.
It's December and you're reflecting
on your year. You loved you.
You caught your life between your
fingertips and got it to stay. You let it
sing to you. You made it.
You are here.