Original filename: BOY.pdf
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You have no problem with splitting me into pieces. Your cold, clenched fists
annihilate my features. If I’m a little hesitant, you’re a dictating president -‐ your
orders like a gospel; you feed me like a preacher. Follow my lead; you’ll do as I
say. You’re smiling when you’re violent. You’re twisted – both ways. You say you
love me, sweetly, and then proceed to beat me, but I’m tired of keeping secrets.
I think of you and it haunts me, it taunts me still, after all this time. They take a
slice of the burden; try to care, try to understand, try to cope with me. They keep
a smile on their face and embrace me for who I am – but I’m not even sure that I
know who that is. Not now. I’m a separate species, aimlessly pondering along
with my mind through interminable time. I suss and I stare myself out. I break
down. Mechanics rusty, my reactions burn, and it hurts.
It’s easier to talk to myself than others. Yes, they’re attentive and patient,
engaging in conversations that they think I want to have. They try to help me
trust, help me be – make me laugh, set me free. But you still have a power over
me that grips at every action, stumbles along with every word, always present,
suffocating me, never letting me breathe. I oversleep. I can’t eat. I lose myself in
idealistic thoughts and lies. My dreams falter under the constant clouds behind
my eyes. I wallow in naivety. Ignorance is bliss, but soon your hands, they
shackle me, dragging me out of the mist.
Yet, after all of this, I think you were the only person who truly understood me.
You saw the shadows; you shared the fears. We wallowed in our sorrow, manic
and distressed. You tamed me. You became me. I lost myself whenever I was with
I was dependent, possessive, obsessive, reckless and aggressive. I fell in so deep
that I couldn’t claw my way out, couldn’t find my way back. I was drowning. I let
you in and I lost my power, I lost my grip. You need me, that’s what you said, and
if you love me, you’ll keep me.
You don’t seriously believe that it’s special? That it means something? It’s just the
prologue, the starting line, the first hurdle. You’re going to be doing this shit for the
rest of your life – so what does your first time matter? You’re just stupid. You’re
stupid and you’re boring – and I’m tired and I’m horny.
And they worked -‐ your cruel, calculated, manipulating words. I was fourteen. I
had convinced myself that I loved you – that what I felt for you was love in it’s
purest form. Now I realise, I channelled such a pure, venomous hatred for you,
my innocent, untouched soul didn’t immediately recognise this love for what it
was. Adoration. Admiration. Infatuation. An overwhelming bitterness. An all-‐
consuming agony that contorted every muscle and ached with every touch. So
powerful and sickening that it could only please me. It began to tease me – it
turned me against my inhibitions, turned my instincts into lies.
You left me trapped at the bottom of my own self-‐loathing pit, all part of your
sadistic plans to destroy something already on the verge of self-‐destruction.
Those extra miles, you watched me run them. Those panic buttons – you made
me push them. All of those thoughts you made me dwell on and parades that you
rained on. You created what you always wanted; a vulnerable mess that you
could pick and choose to fix and smash in a vicious, volatile cycle. You tailored
your own insecurities into a dress of desperation that you forced me to wear as a
skin. I cut and I cried. I drank and I died, because you killed me from the inside.
You remind me of my father – grinning or growling, smirking or sulking, up or
down, his happy medium another’s miserable bastard. This world of cynicism and
disregard was destructive to angst-‐ridden child. Not a bad man – but a sad one,
and his self-‐inflicted depression left me cold. He acted like his life had been
stolen from him, like he hadn’t smashed it all to shit with his own self-‐pitying
hands. Self, that word defines my father – everything revolves around himself. My
mother says, as long as he’s laughing, he doesn’t care who cries. And it’s true – the
same as you.
Condescending, you never mend me, but force me to fend for myself. I want to
tell you, tear at you, kick at you, scream at you, wear at you. Make you feel as
insignificant and dead to the world as I did. Make you feel as small, and weak,
and broken and feeble as I was.
I spent longer than I should have trying to stitch myself back together. I wasn’t
stable to start with but you crushed me into fragments. My impulse started to
bite back, and I fought my fears with the worst forms of attack. I pushed away
and punished; I used and I abused. I couldn’t risk another person stabbing feeling
into the parts of myself I’d spent so long trying to numb. I couldn’t let them come
close, couldn’t let them care. I would taint them when I touched them. I would
snip and snap in spite.
I had to retrace me steps, hunting through the dark of the past to the very start to
live it all again. Live like we never happened and like I’d never met you.
I am here to be left and neglected, refused and reduced to the nothing that I am. I
am here to be fucked up, fucked and fucked over – left questioning what the hell
just happened, who the hell I am, or where the hell I go next. Maybe this is hell.
Maybe I am hell. Maybe I am Satan. Maybe I am the Antichrist. Maybe I will cut
myself loose and make the same mistakes twice.
No, I’m not strong. I’m quivering; I’m withering. Still falling until I hit the normal
ground, the normal earth, the normal world. I don’t know who I am, or what I am,
or what makes me. I’m destined for failure. I’m existing, I’m floating, but then I’m
sinking and I’m fading. I am useless. I am nothing. I will never be good enough.
But you -‐ you are just a boy. And I know that now.
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