Poetry and All Things Alike

Youth

The bits and pieces of it are all uncomprehend able. Just flashes and bits of what used to be. It's really just seconds it takes. Maybe not even, who knows. Because this, my final memory, is the most uncomprehend able of them all

I didn't appreciate it enough. No, not at all. But only reaching my teenage years and having more problems than days, how could I appreciate anything?

Life sure didn't deserve the appreciation, but neither did I. I have come to the conclusion that there is a certain lists that exists, filled with those deemed undesirable to humanity, and I have somehow managed to drag myself to somewhere near the top of that list. Mark that as an accomplishment. God knows my lack of motivation prevents me from doing much of anything else.

But when did it all start? Who knows. Things were going fairly okay for the majority of my short life. Perfectly normal. When did that change? Is there an exact moment that can be pin pointed? If there is, I imagine it being a little red dot between the ages of 10 and 11. But the paper bled and that little red dot continued to grow over the remainder of my life, blurring out the following years till there is no trace that I was alive past the age of 10. A third of my life is represented only by blotchy red ink.

Before that dot, however, there is more color. The color of my dad's blue eyes fading to gray over the years or the caramel color of my mom's skin in the middle of summer. There's turquoise in the waves of water lapping at my stubby little toes. Gray as my head slams against the pavement. Pink scar tissue across the left side of my face. Orange in the fire burning my arm. Black as the door closes, leaving me alone. Foamy white bubbling in the hot tub, stinging my throat with chlorine. Green, a color I'd rather not remember, reminds me of your eyes, telling me that I'll be okay.

Red tainted. All red tainted and messy, becoming a bigger mess as the years drag on.

Why can't I remember? You would think that something would be significant enough to stand out. Something should be enough to break through the red and remind me why my life was important. Something should tell me that at that moment I knew I could trust this person, or that I knew I had the best friends in the world, or that it was right there that I knew I was in love. Maybe those moments are somewhere, thriving in a world that existed years ago, possibly days ago, and maybe even hours ago.

But know, as the red turns to black, all I can make out is the door closing, and I am greeted with an all too familiar silence.