you'd know I never like to talk about myself. I only write because my therapist told me that keeping in my emotions was what almost killed me, the first time. You'd know I grew up in the shadow of my older brother--never feeling good enough in the eyes of my parents. I tried to speak, to show them my newest art project but they just smirked and asked about the football game on tv. I never got my report card put up on the refrigerator. My small fragile hand would reach for the one red magnet, trying to attach the piece of paper where everyone could see it.
If you really knew me, you'd know that my father was a racist and a homophobe. He'd see me watching a show on the Disney channel. "Get that n**** shit off of my tv!" I was just a twelve year old kid, just watching a harmless show. Though he was an alcoholic and a drug addict, the words he spoke to me and my family weren't acceptable. I was afraid to come out to my mother, be true to my own sexuality, in fear that she would tell my father. I wasn't fearful of being kicked out of my home--just petrified that he would beat me until no end.
If you really knew me, you'd know I was the kid that said 'I'm sorry' when other's bumped into me. I never walked looking straight ahead, always down at the ground--practically touching my nose to my sneakers. I sat at the back of the class because I obsessed with the thought that people were staring at me. I never talked because other's talked enough for me. "Stupid fag!" It wasn't just the students that harassed me, my teachers did as well. I thought school was supposed to be my safe haven. But at my first high school, I was being harassed and talked about by my teacher's, the people who I was supposed to trust the most.
If you really knew me, you'd know I've never felt happy in my entire life. My smiles are misleading. They give you false hope. They mask what is really going on inside of me. I was taught, at an early age, to not show emotion. I wasn't allowed to cry when I was sad, because to my father, crying was a sign of weakness. Just a child, not quite a boy, what was I supposed to do if I couldn't cry?
If you really knew me, you'd know I fight everyday to stay alive. I look through my mini photoalbum every morning because it reminds me that I'm loved--a feeling that's just as foreign as a second language. I feel more connected with space more than I do with humans, thus my passionate love for the solar system. I write poetry that is mainly based on the many planets that inhabit this universe. I think everyone feels some sort of disconnect with something--mine being between my soul and the outside world. It's quiet in space, at least I imagine it to be. Nobody's there to cause you pain.
If you really knew me, you'd know my true hero's are those I've spent most of my time with--locked inside psychiatric hospitals with no way out. Three different hospital stays, many months of my life. My friends, fellow inpatients, taught me more about myself than any doctor could. They understood, unlike the other's. They'd let me be myself and I did the same for them. I remember each of their delicate faces, afraid to forget them--afraid to lose a bit of myself.
If you really knew me, you'd know I want to change the world. I want to change, impact, at least one life before I die. I'd rather be poor and love my job than be rich. I'd rather live without the electronic devices I've grown up with because I feel it distracts from truely finding the person inside. If I could have just one poem, one essay, read by one wounded soul and know they've found hope through my words, then I could die a happy and fulfilled person.
If you really knew me, you'd know I'd be your friend in a heartbeat. You just have to give me a chance.