Eighteen Years Old (There’s Still A Lot I Don’t Know)


I’m eighteen years old and there are things that I feel like I know more than anyone ever could, like how much the color yellow infuriates me and how I can never get tired of my mother’s voice, my friends are the closest I’ve ever had to a home and my father’s temper is almost as understandable as the Rubik’s Cube on my bedroom floor that I never could learn to solve. Continue reading



Coiled so deeply in the beds of our misfortunate teenage lives as depression hangs from dark grey skies and I just want you to be alright. And I know you’re just looking for a high that can make you forget the need to jump from your bedroom window on the fourth floor just so you can hear the crack in your bones when they successfully split into two against the concrete as rose red fills up the gaps in the sidewalk.

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The Little Boy


I remember once I watched a movie, wait..or was it a TV show, let’s just pretend it was a movie. And in this movie there was a kid, about seven or eight years old. His skin was rosy-pale, swollen lips, he would bite them whenever he got nervous or anxious. His hair twisted in prominent curls a shade of caramel blonde to be exact. And his eyes, his eyes were blue, a deep shade of calming blue, people would say, but to me they just held worry, I would see ounces of worry locked within the sea blue orbs. When I looked into them they wouldn’t remind me of the sky when it’s clear, no they made me feel pity. And they made me feel sympathy.
His cheeks were always flushed because of the cold, they lived in Alaska a family of three. You would think they were happy but they were far from that, the boy never got to hold his mother’s hand because it was always accompanied by a cigarette or two. His father he wasn’t a drunk, he wasn’t a stoner either, he was just born a complete asshole with no actual reason to be a shitty parent.

But when I watched this movie the thing I lost myself most in wasn’t the boys story, it wasn’t the boys appearance or his struggle, it was the moments that he would stare into space and then not come back for hours, he would get disoriented without even moving. In those moments I’d like to think that the boy would’ve found himself falling through the cracks inside his brain until he came across a safe place. A place to land. A world or a universe he had built for himself, where his imagination was the ruler and he would ride fire-breathing dragons at absurd heights, but he would never be scared. He had built this world where fear did not exist.

He would also not be alone in this world, no he would never be alone. He would have friends, dozens of them and they would be elf’s in costumes, he would go on adventures with these elfs and he would do anything to stop himself from being pulled into reality. He hated it there. No one would hug him, no one would hold his hand. He had no friends and there were no fire-breathing dragons to carry him for miles in the air.
There were no talented elf’s who played guitar or cooked meals on the campfire. However there was loneliness in this world, there was fear a ridiculous amount of fear that would never let him sleep. And there was pain, a type of pain he didn’t understand yet. Because he felt it but then he didn’t, because an aspirin wouldn’t kill it, it wasn’t the type of pain you would feel when you hurt yourself because you’re clumsy, no its the pain that you feel when the world hurts you, over and over. It wrenches you heart and twist your mind until you can no longer believe. Until the cracks in your brain that lead you to your world get clogged by the actions or words of others. And soon you stop seeing elfs and mermaids and dragons. Your imagination dies, so does a piece of you deep inside.

I’d like to think the boy never got hurt, he was safe. But that’s not the reality, it’s just my imagination, I wonder how it’s still alive, after so much time spent living a shitty life.-H