3 MO ago

Wish I Was Here

My childhood bedroom doesn’t exist anymore

My parents sold the house when I was 19

There was an antique bedframe with a hidden compartment perfect for hiding scissors and safety pins and razorblades and a sliding door that you couldn’t slam without it bouncing back open again, making it impossible to be angry

When the sickness comes I often sob that I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home

My childhood bedroom doesn’t exist anymore

Another girl lives there now

Every day she passes the spot where I tried to hang myself with my bright pink bathroom tie and the place where I used my hidden compartment scissors to carve the word “help” into my thigh

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so dark, I’m really not the type to take myself too seriously

Always the funny friend,

I usually have a joke on the ready

Did you hear the one about the girl who walks into a bar and hangs herself from it?

My childhood bedroom doesn’t exist anymore

I have no monument to my misery

No memorial

No place to lay flowers and think about how far I’ve come

Two cities, three apartments, four new medications, no real jobs, no real lovers

I wonder if the girl who lives there now looks out the window at the weeping willow and dreams about a future without suffering

Will she ever get there?

My childhood bedroom doesn’t exist anymore

My parents retired to a small town in Vermont

In their new house there is a room with my things in it

It is far too clean and I don’t know where the hiding places are

My childhood bedroom doesn’t exist anymore

How can you reconcile your past when you can’t see it?

My therapist tells me I need to get to the root of the problem

But the root is 1000 miles away on a dirt hill in New Jersey

In an old house with a view of the ocean, in a room with yellow walls and floral carpet, and an antique bedframe, and a girl who no longer exists

I want to walk into my childhood bedroom once more and cradle that girl in my arms and tell her that running away from the room with the sliding door won’t fix anything

But a new girl lives there now

I wonder if she knows she lives with ghosts

My childhood bedroom doesn’t exist anymore

It’s left a hole I’ve been unable to fill

I just want to sit on the floor

On the floral carpet

And cry

I don’t want to run anymore

I don’t want any new cities

My roots are lost and I don’t know how to find them

I’m afraid I don’t exist

I’m afraid I’ve run out of second chances

Reconciliation is a luxury

Forgiveness is a myth

Did you hear the one about the girl who walks into a bar and is overwhelmed by the noises and lights and tries to order a drink but her voice comes out hoarse and shaky like wind through an empty house, like an empty room she once lived in, but the bartender doesn’t understand her so she mumbles something under her breath and runs out of the bar and goes home and lies on the floor for three and a half hours trying to remember the last time she felt okay?

Have you heard that one?

I want to go home

I want to go home

I want to go home

My childhood bedroom doesn’t exist anymore

But I’m doing my best to

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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