I’m one stressful moment away from hanging my soul back up and going back to the days where I wrote about nothing more than the pain that I “couldn’t” get rid of.
Someone one told me “you just write about pain to get attention”…something about my life not being stressful enough to complain about.
Tell that to the three year old me being shoved in the closet to suffocate due to the candles smoke at the door.
Or explain to the four year old me that the cracked skull I wore on my shoulders was nothing more than an accident that your father told no one about…after throwing out the bloodstained rug that once covered his whole apartment.
Tell that to the nineteen year old me sitting behind these words as he tries to juggle being a lover, a soldier, a son, a brother and so many more things.
Tell that to the grown up me trying to figure out how not to lose his grip during the best possible moments of his life. Explain it to me as I sit here thinking of the past and reading the reports from my childhood stating that “young Colin show’s signs of
control and anger issues ( not to be overcome anytime soon). Symptoms of post traumatic stress are being shown…..”
Don’t take one look at a person and judge them like you judge the covers of the books sitting on your shelf. You don’t know what their smile keeps you from knowing.