My Childhood Was a War Zone
My childhood was a war zone.
Hiding behind the teal leather bunkers,
as projectiles came from across the open floor plan.
I would hole myself up in the bedroom of my lost mother
trying to find some kind of relief
but there was no heroin when I was thirteen.
There were razor blades, and junk TV, and simulation games, and sad emo songs on an interface.
My childhood was a war zone.
Never knowing if I would be left all aloneÂ
without food, or if I had the rations to get throughÂ
Or how I would get anywhere but the fort,
to school, the park, if I even wanted to go there.
I only wanted to go if I looked beautiful, and healthy.Â
So I would compulsively brush my hair, throw up any food I ate,Â
spend any money I made on fake tans nails. Smear myself with make-up, put on some sunglasses, and face the horror that is middle school.
It’s important, to seem well-meaning, healthy and not hungry.
People don’t want to feed a hungry person, because they know there is hunger they can’t feed.
My childhood was a war zone.
And sometimes it was fun,
I had my comrades the dog, the cat, the pumpkins and the sun,
before the Finnish general killed them all, or took them somewhere to be freeÂ
We would play all day, we would run to the sea.
But we all know what happens to a war zone,
you take the beauty and tear it down
make sure there are no hiding places
for the natives in the town.
So we strip down the little burroughs and we level off the tops
of any high up mountain that someone may get caught
playing with imagination, the worst of the offense
trying to leave your body, because it’s all that makes sense
titsay
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
blakekathryn
romaincrisis
