02 Jul ‘Everything I’ve Ever Wanted & Everything I Don’t Deserve’
Everything I’ve Ever Wanted & Everything I Don’t Deserve
By Samuel James
It pains me to admit that I have felt such a distance from love.
My previous forays into this field have been treacherous, a clichéd dark wood that many enter and do not return. There’s been a vast difference between how I spoke to myself then and how I ignore myself now. I have been a cub licking his wounds, waiting for age to drag him where he needs to be. To put one foot in front of the other only to be two steps behind. I’ve been crouched in this feeling since the day I could walk, I feel somber and bleak, distraught when I talk. I have felt burdened by joy, elated by thought.
Vandalised by this arrogant little darkness, I’ve decided to make some changes.
Drastic as it seems, overdramatic as I am, I think I have to get better.
Harrowing as an upper middle-class upbringing is, I’ve kissed a girl before.
Last time I saw, her chin was dripping with blood or something I’m not too sure.
It pains her. Still begs for more though she acts like it’s hatred.
It’s just different now as it seems that Death and I aren’t strangers, we used to be neighbors, that girl I kissed, we dated.
My ex-girlfriend sucks. I don’t genuinely feel she is a bad person and I promise that whatever emotional aggression I once held toward her has glacially subsided. The hatred I wielded against her was the barrel of a worn gun, waving it in her face begging her to love me. Something I’ve learnt from the girls I’ve been with is that they are rather akin to zoo’s in that, the animal is only seen once you are inside.
For the past year, my movements have been motivated by anger. Every step was walked with the intention of proving to those who have touched me that I am untouchable. In regards to my ex-girlfriend, I asked of you then my dear, the same as I ask now,
‘If there was something I could do to fix this, would you promise to keep it to yourself?’
Please accept that I am not a bully.
I am not too overzealous, I am not infringing on the privacy of others.
I am not hurting your feelings. Tell me something I have said that is fabricated and I’ll consider an apology but until then, my heart will remain not on my sleeve but in the dirt where you left it. The last thing I want to do is drag you down. I’ve stared too long at this town and thought of nothing but burning the bridges that defy their purpose and try keep me out.
Where I am right now, love is a private conversation everyone else is having.
Like kissing a tourist, it’s tongue is foreign. I have been crossed like a crucifix. Felt my own nails twist into each wrist. I’m digging deeper just to feel again.
Blood drips onto rugs where you and I once slept and I am reminded that in this life, everything ends. Photographs in which we reintroduce our lips exist but they are strangers now.
While you’ve been dead to me, I have been raging.
It feels as if Genghis Khan has been pillaging the village of innocence in my mind, the once sacred ideas of love now contorted and construed.
It is tortuous to only water a tulip when you want to, either let it die or help it grow.
There are three sides to every story I know. All I can be is honest and perhaps it’s to a fault. I think the thing that hurt the most was that the kindest words you’d ever said are things I knew you never meant. I wish you never met my friends, though I am glad to have helped you in your journey, you did nothing but present a trident in the road of mine. Though the anger I feel toward the world may not always be present, treat me the same you would a war veteran, a rattlesnake. Respect me for who I am but leave me to coil all on my own.
I’ve been so mad at myself for so long. I keep failing Uni though I attend class I am absent during, I keep forgetting to tie bows on my arrows, I keep throwing shade at shadows. This is a personal attack toward the only one to blame.
Her family became mine and I lost them along with her. The casualties from the breaking of a relationship lay distant along the days you would’ve spent together, with all of them. I miss drinking with her dad, I miss making her mother laugh.
I taught her brothers to swear and now all I do is curse at those who surround me.
The night darkens as this son dies. Screams are heard from a speaker sitting at the back porch of my house. The different voices I hear in my head are animated, physical.
Cigarettes are rolled by friends as they act as barstools supporting my drinking. They are passed around between the boys, reminiscent of the girls in the room. A collective calmness is shared within most who slouch at this table.
Dyed black hair drips onto a boy sat just outside the group.
‘I just know that being around all of you isn’t going to help me. You aren’t even necessarily bad people, I just can’t stay here.’
I’ve long felt misplaced, even when exactly where I’m supposed to be. At my home, with my friends. I can feel decades waiting. The often-ignored reality of being a dreamer. I can feel all of this beginning to slip. It’s much easier to be like them and to be content. To only need the simple things.
They’ll be around a while. I won’t be.
There is a cyclical nature to break ups, hearing names that you have tried to forget, seeing photos of faces you don’t recognise but used to kiss. This distance is the dusk of adolescence, a reminder of how anti-social innocence can be.
The end of that relationship was the most affecting thing that had happened in my life up to that point. I was distraught, in every sense of the word and I hadn’t really been alone before. From moving out of home, I lived with a friend whose initials now are fading on my foot. Having moved houses since then and with her no longer around, I had to be in my own company. Once I was, I started to understand why she wanted to leave. I was trespassing in my own apartment, feeling anxious when deciding what to wear and began fracturing my neck from all the time I spent looking back.
I fall to my knees in the face of my youth and wish to have already learned from the mistakes I’m going to make, already mended the hearts that I will take. The trails that I’ll blaze are currently frozen and from all the years I have lived, I have found peace only in moments.
This anger, this aggressive misdirection can only lead to more extreme’s and I cannot keep this shit docked in my mind, this harboring of resentment.
If things keep changing, maybe I have too aswell.
I thought this is how it was, how it was always going to be.
Deaf at therapy sessions, mourning in evenings, my mind would jump straight to grieving upon meeting someone new.
This rage fueled reflection leaves me no choice but to realise where I am now.
To see the blood that left my arm as a younger man now being used to paint my future.
I had to be cut to see this blood fall.
I had to see how high I was before I decided to jump.
I don’t mind the view from up here.
My ankles sway, finding joy in such suspension.
My last words are a single breath of awe when looking over the world.
I see mountains of doubt, forests of envy and blonde pastures.
Clearings that mean exactly that.
Rivers that spread from ocean shore to waterfall as desperation follows me everywhere.
I have felt so dark for so long.
Amidst the drowning in this storm, I decided to look up. To notice that the torrential downpour around me had ceased, and the black clouds that once followed have been suddenly distracted.
Something rocked me. I have begun to feel lifted. Hoisted from this tomb of a room by a parting in the breaths taken these last few months.
I have been resuscitated not by hatred but by patience.
Time has passed as we’re told it will and it seems the rumors are true. Things do get better. I stand shallow in these depths of despair, I feel the cuffs opened and the rope loosened. I finally think I’m doing alright and that scares the holy hell out of me.
I feel calm and distilled, patient and chaotic all at once. Like a Lion in a circus, just glaring out of boredom knowing that at any moment I could kill these fucking fools.
This change of heart did not come from an organ donor operation no, but from someone who started as a friend.
Since I was little, I knew that I wanted to ruin this world for better or worse and for that to occur, I need someone who comforts me by making me uncomfortable. Someone I can be alone with, someone who will sweep me up when I’m dreams and dust, snort my ashes and tell me to ‘not be myself’ when I need to hear it.
A soul that will encourage me to break jaws and laws whilst reprimanding me along the way.
A girl whose halo is tilted by her horns, a therapist to heretics, an optimistically pessimistic girl raised in Louisiana who now lives in Los Angeles.
I found her. She is the most beautiful person I have ever seen. It is as if she is of a species thought to be extinct as I shout to the world of her existence, so elated at who I have found.
With this girl distance does not exist. What her and I have together, this is the shit they make movies out of, Bonnie & Clyde, Harley Quinn and Joker, Eminem and Kim, Johnny Cash and June Carter,
Woody Allen’s daughter and her father. As scandalous as Bill and Monica, as intriguing as Dustin and Mrs. Robinson, JFK and every woman in The United States. As smooth as Tate and Charles and as affable as Kurt and Courtney.
She reminds me of Marilyn, Manson and Monroe.
She is the loneliness and beauty of my childhood on the Coast.
She is every fear, and every hope. Both the reason I want to quit, and the reason I smoke. Kissing her feels like travelling in time. I see everything from the beginning of the Earth, to the end. I see volcanic eruptions and floods meeting together peacefully. I see her, embroiled in ice as every move she makes freezes me.
Matches light as fire cracks in front of me, I have no other choice than to close my eyes and think of you. That is how most nights start.
You find the key under the mat of my conscious and make yourself at home.
As we kiss I dream still, realising that your tattooed bottom lip says so much more than the writing that it keeps. Within you, I have found such a sense of relief and if I have to sell my soul just to afford another hazy moment with you then consider it done, you are worth it.
We’ve spoken more than cellmates, you and me.
It’s as if I had been being escorted down Death Row by my insecurities when you sprinted down the hall, singing of my acquittal.
I’ve heard you whisper things you should’ve screamed.
I’ve felt you bite my tongue when you were sick of biting yours. Darkened rooms are no longer solemn with you in them and there have been flights filled with more sexual tension than the back room of most churches.
I reach out in an effort of trust as you use your confidence as a barrier. Segregating who you are, and who you are to the rest of us. You mask your eyes like a Ninja Turtle, they bleed like Raphael’s, the most colorful tears I’ve ever seen.
When you ask me how it is I fell in love, these are the words I have been trying to say.
It’s the way you speak, you are a gangster.
You walk with a limb from the battles you’ve lost and your skin is painted with the wars that you’ve won.
Your Southern hospitality competes with the deliberate bitchiness acquired from living in Los Angeles, a must-have in a town so ruthless. You thrive in every environment I have seen you in, you are a genetic freak, every 13-year-old boy’s dream. You are a tattooist as you choose your words and imprint them on those close, it does not matter where I go, you are with me.
The oldest tombstone with freshly placed flowers, the only person whose thoughts are accompanied by choirs and Thomas Edison would have never felt as jealous as seeing you when you’re switched on. I attribute your electric tendencies partly to your mother.
You are her strength, her perseverance and have inherited her skill of adaptation.
It will be a very significant moment in my life when her and I meet, to look at the tree who grew this seed and say thank you. With tears in my eyes I will thank her.
We both know things of her daughter, secrets that one learns from her silence in crowded rooms.
I never really considered religion until I met you Tori. Though I was raised in Christian schools and begrudgingly taught its meanings and intricacies, you are the closest I have ever come in believing that there is a God.
Your upbringing in the South has not only rendered your religious belief unshakeable, but the belief you hold in yourself and in others.
You lose faith in the world daily but feel it invigorate you in individuals, singular moments of purity that remind us why we are still here. A couple good days in a row, a kind deed by a stranger, a supposed best friend finishing your sentence that starts a whole new line of thinking. I’ll walk a few steps slower than you sometimes as I observe what happens when you stride onto a street. Traffic doesn’t just stop; 14 people crash their cars.
You thought this part of you was gone, that everyone was blind to who you feel you are.
This is not the case, you are every sentence I will never say, everything I can’t explain.
I’m not just blowing smoke hoping that you’ll catch my drift but this is the way the wind has blown us and I am so thankful for all of this.
My voice is corse from asking so much of you and I know I show love the same way as a corpse but you are who I want to be buried with, whether in four years, or forty-four.
This feeling, this fucking feeling is what my Mother would say was waiting for me. That ‘through all the shit Sam, through every heartbreak and failure, you will find something worth so much more’. In the same way that your Mother has passed her blessings to you, I have indeed been awarded some from my own. My Mother and I see the world differently. If you ever find her looking at you, notice that while she sees beauty, what her eyes search for is your home. A childhood memory that has shaped who you are. She will stop you if she hears bullshit, in the politest way she can. She will ask how you are whilst holding your hand, she is special and strong. A beacon of trust even though she has spent many a day doubting herself.
From her, I have leased her intuition.
A hindrance in some ways as life would be easier if the mundane satisfied me, if small talk was enough to make me feel accomplished.
Life would be simpler yes but what is worth more? The connection’s possible to one person when speaking solely from your heart are immeasurable when compared to the amount of ‘friends’ you could have that slither with each movement, hissing with each compliment, leaving you bruised from how backhanded they can be.
Thanks to Mum’s words, I understand now that I am in the present that was once my future.
As these dark skies subside, my father has been giving me the gift of reassurance these recent months, letting me know that I am on the right path. There is no greater thing a Dad can do than to say, ‘It’s okay kid, you’re going to be okay’.
We have shared sleepless nights taking turns showing the other music we have found, trying to bridge the generational gap as best we can. Common ground is often found, not only where we stand but in our cigarette’s, the way we both hold them.
If this life is all about memories, connections and love then for you and me Tori, we ended and began that night on the pier.
We had just returned from Sydney, an impromptu trip facilitated by my parents as a celebration of your being here. You and I held wages in our seats. On the plane, you whispered things I can’t repeat but play over and over in my mind as my heart couldn’t help but moan.
Having arrived back at my parents’ house, we grabbed the necessities.
Drinks, smokes, Mum, Dad, my little brother Jesse, You and Me.
My Mother first sat on her own but by the time we pulled up at the Marina, she was sitting with Dad. Better.
I grabbed your hand under the blanket as you brushed it away, a reminder of the girls I have loved before. Though you resisted in that moment, you and I both knew what was happening. That evening was too still for trouble not to find us.
It was 10:30 at night as the four of us took turns raging, hiding our lit cigarettes from my younger brother in efforts to preserve his innocence.
Between the drinks and my family, You and I found moments alone on that pier. I felt my organs banging against the walls that enclose them, my heart slamming against the inside of my chest. You twirled across the pier’s wooden boards as if you had been training all your life to ruin me.
That is the moment I knew. I felt something in you change and accept what you had been fighting. We danced as if we were in a Tarantino film. Mum and Dad were overcome with excitement seeing glimpses that their son had found who he has been looking for.
I finally feel like I am being rewarded. Acknowledged by the clouds and saluted by the Heavens that I’ve been working fucking hard to get my life together.
They say that basing your own happiness in another is detrimental, that happiness should stem from within. But that is not who I am…yet.
For right now, knowing that I am loved empowers me so much more than the belief I have in myself, it is tribalism at its foundation, with you I can do this.
You make music when you breathe and that’s something we have in common, I make music too. I do my very best to create a song that encapsulates fully whatever it is I’m trying to articulate. I often feel misrepresented when I speak. As if all the sentences I have ever heard, every idea I’ve ever been exposed too fights within me to see which I say first. This is part of the ‘learning who you are’ game that some of us choose to play.
Whether it be love, anger, poison or an ailment, everything I do is so considered.
I’m so protective of my art and the fact that you love this version of me is humbling as I’m still the draft of who I’m becoming.
As my head hangs and my wrists break from the weight of my mind, I hear water as it slips into the sink.
Though I have never been diagnosed with any form of depression, to me this nagging feeling of committed negativity is a faucet left running. Its reliable drops ask me how I’m feeling, if I’m sure of myself and my decisions.
If I’ve thought about death today or forgotten how mummified this son can feel.
My nails paint themselves after a shitty day at work and the bottles around my apartment are as open and empty as I feel. Those are the bad days.
On those days, I feel it grow on me, cancerous and starving.
Mocking me as I leave the house daily sporting bear traps as sneakers and a Bats eyes for vision. I continue to stumble drunkenly along this road.
I need advice on my vices. I’ve been on ships before and all of them capsized.
I am divisive and indecisive, both a fire and a fire hydrant.
Give me some time to iron out these kinks. Give me some time to craft and concoct the person I wanted to be at the age of 5. The tapes still exist of me standing with a toy microphone watching a Live DVD of KISS, knowing that I have to go and buy some facepaint and do it my way.
We are often dressed in funeral as we the mourn the death of every love we’ve felt before. We snicker during the eulogy muttered by our supposed friends, the same ones that rolled those cigarettes for us. They could only imagine the things we’ve seen when staring at each other. I took my shot with you, planning this as well as a school shooter. Guns blazing, I thought ‘enough aiming’, snorted a few of the night stars and with this much wanderlust and a bit of luck you’d kiss me back. That you did and there I hid, in the shadow of the steps that grown up Sam is taking.
For two weeks, I had been trying to feel you. I wanted to inhale the ink from your tattoo’s and as I went too, something perfect happened. As I scratched your bare back, I noticed the adversity of your life under my nails, the deeper I dig, the less pain you feel.
I grabbed your neck to stifle your breath to make each something you cherish as opposed to something you expect.
Your thighs shook the way my head did when you asked if I wanted to stop.
Every ‘I love you’ is an incantation that leaves me unable to spell. Speechless.
My youth plays a miscast role in these self-doubts. This all leads me to feel conflicted about the person I am now and the person I will be. I feel each of those people tread lightly, standing facing the other on opposite sides of a decaying glacier, being forced to step toward each other until one day maybe decades down the line, him and I will be one person.
This however is doubtful as the warmth of your heart will surely melt and leave me alone but together with you. Drowning in the days I see us spending. The moments you hear of others’ lives that mean nothing to you until they are your own.
I see us years from now,
A dinner date in Auschwitz as you speak to me of the tragic.
Train rides to Germany, the beer, weed and freedom.
Teach me how to drive, tie me up as if it’s magic.
Get drunk with me in New Orleans, let me absorb the liquor and think, if I’d ever be in that part of the world without this lighthouse that helped me see.
You say only Elvis will sing at your funeral but let me sing for until then, let me sit with you at LSU Football games. Show me the paintings you love in New York,
Our idea of ‘nightlife’ will be red wine. Our favourite film will be one we haven’t seen. How beautiful would it be for moments to be constant? For dreams to become yesterday.
As you may have been able to tell Tori, I’ve given you some thought.
All I can ever hope is that I give you so much more.
You are my Valhalla, my immortal peace after our shift here on this Earth is over. Your heaven is waiting and God knows where I’ll end up. You are something so special it hurts, you are every lesson I’ll never learn.
You are everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I don’t deserve.
Still on the comedown from growing up.
Still singing in the shower hoping that the tags on the back of my unwashed shirts aren’t the only labels that hear me.
When I hear the word ‘deck’ I don’t just think of Yu Gi Oh cards, I think of cigarette’s.
I’ve seen the colour of my clothes change and then stay the same. It seems years have slipped by without my knowledge.
You mistook that light at the end of the tunnel Sam.
It was not there to guide you, but to get further and further away the closer you step.
They’re all laughing at you.
My Mother called me and told me that her and Dad are separating.
Wasn’t the sort of news I expected to receive just before turning 21.
Things as internally disrupting as this often quiet me. I silence myself, I distance everything from everyone for the purpose of reflection. Detached from all this complicated action. I don’t want any part of this breaking, this dissection.
Fractured, isn’t it? Every idea of what this was meant to be.
For so long, I thought being angry made me dangerous. I’ve always thought that this temperamental inner hatred was a requirement, a burden that I will carry to help alleviate the weight that others may feel. I thought that having an attitude like Shawn Michaels in the 90’s would turn me into an impenetrable force, constructing a wall that Trump would be proud of. Though I am calmer now than ever before my middle finger is still hard, placed dead in the face of those who question my intentions. The acceptance of a shitty mood is something I’ve mastered. Why has this persisted? Why do I still feel ignorant to how things used to be?
The piano you played as you tapped my chest has been so silent since you left.
I can say whatever I want to try hide what has happened but all of this feels so barren to me now.
The oceans have dried. The pastures are fire.
Those mountains amount to nothing, those forests of envy have emptied and it’s too tempting to pretend like this is ending, I am finding more than joy in this suspension. I’ve found your intentions.
I can’t be with you anymore.
The words of love I’ve written were honest at the time, now they rest as an old photo of our family. Outdated.
Your mother and I will never meet. Thomas Edison was blind, Marilyn Monroe was a virgin. There is no God. The children in the Museum who turned to look at you fell victim to a victim herself, falling under your spell the way I did.
None of this shit is real.
I’m sorry for all that I’ve done and everything I didn’t but to help myself I must be selfish, do what’s better for my mental health and progress through the world with a scar on my back from the times I’ve been cut by the lie that is love.
To be murdered by love, is to drown by simply staring at the sea. To even consider getting wet, one must consider death.
I disregard every well-intentioned word spoken that rests dead above. Who you are, the things that make you as vacuous as your actions were murdering me. So, I killed us.
As this reality sets into my skin again, I can’t help the silhouette inside that loves how much this drives me.
This kerosene, this veteran of havoc.
Creatively, I’m pushed forward by your distortion. I’ll move on and move out of this apartment, temporarily end up in a place just short of where I’m meant to be. A city with distance, inside and out. Streets that drip with overconfidence and bars in which I’ll wear black, then black out.
My track record with these sorts of relationship breakdowns suggest that I will quietly spiral into sadness however, I’m quietly positive when I think about the future, hoping it’s even once considered me.
You’d soon mistake me for a farmer how I’ve grown so much yet I’ve carted around this anxiety as it tries to weigh me down. As I get my foot in the door it becomes more difficult to try and shut it out. As I inch closer to better versions of myself, situations are presented that become defining moments of improvement or lack thereof. Ridding myself of you is a defining moment in my tales of sanity.
I’ll stand at my 21st birthday party later this month and stare at the faces who have influenced the expression on mine. My best friends in the world, a broken family, ex-girlfriends with lips that I urge to reminisce.
I hate being drunk so much that I keep drinking. Apparently, it can become a disease or something but I’ll jump off that bridge when I get there. 12 steps are how far I will walk from one side of the bar to the other.
As this firing squad find solace in shining their shoes, I dirty mine. I do love my friends, it’s just that I can’t help but see the negative space between all of this. It’s easy to drink with high society when you’re as drugged as the rest of them. That’s how they stay, staring into haze that sees them clearly.
Beneath the party, ambulances and paramedics alike move with an urgency never before seen as it’s been reported that several people have shockingly become blind to the fact that none of this fucking matters. Police are also on the lookout for anyone who has any fucking sense to come forward.
Three years after the Civil Rights movement in the U.S, heard were the rumblings of another.
Riots were in the minds of those who heard ‘Man in Black’ by Johnny Cash in 1971. Riots sit in the minds still of those in 2019.
I didn’t know Johnny well but I’ve always been there to let him vent.
‘Ah, I’d love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything’s OK,
But I’ll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
‘Till things are brighter, I’m the Man in Black’
- Johnny Cash, 1971
We would’ve been friends I think. Or just two nomads who acknowledge the other on our respective ways through.
Mr. Cash’s sentiments mirror my own and thus I have announced my campaign for this upcoming election. Since the position is now free, I will be the Man in Black. Not to be burdened by sadness or torn apart by closeness but to inspire.
In everything I’ve ever written about my ex-girlfriend, I’ve not once used her name. Though I’ve been artistically aggressive toward her, blaming her for my own failures.
I ran into Phoebe a couple of weeks ago and we spoke. We spoke for a while. I spent our conversation looking at her trying to find something to hate but as she sat in front of me, she was no longer an idea that I could twist and manipulate into an enemy. She was just sat there, listening. She’s moved on to dating someone I used to go to school with. His name also happens to be Sam which is just delightful isn’t it. I am crippled when thinking of her saying the same sentences to him that she used to say to me.
‘Sam, come back to bed
Sam, I love you’
I can hear her voice develop amnesia as any association she had of me with my name, is no longer so.
I find nothing more emasculating than the thought of not being within the subconscious of every girl I’ve kissed. Remember me. Remember what we meant because I always will. Though I’m fucking sick of staring into eyes that can’t locate mine, I invited Phoebe to my 21st. Not as a romantic pursuit, not as an enemy but someone who was an extremely important part of my life and I wish to honor that.
I want to be comfortable, on the verge of drunk and standing with a microphone as I begin my speech, find the most familiar of little English faces and tell her,
‘If the days you look back on are not as positive as they could’ve been I am sorry for the role I played in the parts of yourself that you wish you could change.’
I don’t wonder what she’ll say, I wonder what she won’t.
He’s doing okay. They’re both having their moments.
Sleeping pills are hidden under throats and misspoken words are shared by those too exhausted to stop them slip. Cigarettes fill holes in stories and similar to a recent face tattoo, too little time has passed to know just how affecting this decision will be.
I’m a couple days clean from gambling, hence why I haven’t chosen sides. That’s their journey, I’ll let them fix it or fuck it however they please. I’m too busy balancing falling over and getting back up, losing myself in the routine of these distractions, pretending to be an actor. It is tiring to hate. It is so very exhausting to love. It is not peaceful but I will outlive these ideas that wish to kill me, juvenile thoughts from a juvenile myself.
I don’t hate you Phoebe. I’m thankful for who you are and though our paths right now are separate, I hope to familiarise you with who I’m becoming.
Elements of this aggression will remain but they will be bent according to my will. This is not a PG sequel to an MA film in attempts to appeal to a wider target market, this is not the metal band making a pop album, I am not selling out, I’m buying in. I’m going to murder the opportunities that I earn. I will endure all torture. I will dismember each member of my brethren who does not stand for my flag, the white one I wave in surrender to my fortune. I have no choice other than to be motivated. To make my Father proud of the boy he has raised, to show my Mother that love is as permanent to me as my 11 tattoos, thanks to her teachings. Thanks to them both.
I keep going because I keep growing.
Though I am not a huge advocate for divorce, nor for marriage.
Though I am not as controversial when recuperating or as threatening with an empty hand. In the ways that my age cripples, the way that adolescence alienates, I too have become distant.
Though I am not the lessons I will learn, my army consists of who I am and what I’ve got.