ironicgirl's Journal

He wears his smile under the pain of years squandered on the uses of drugs, and illicit ways trying to find himself. On this bus to the next couple of stops I wonder what led him this way. With a blue plastic tube around his neck, with a special way of smoking his cigarettes. His mystique and sadness brings me wonder and understanding. He laughs about some random thing, with his blue coveralls wearing dirtied socks and no shoes, says he doesn't need them. He's probably around my age, and he flirts a bit with me, and then gathers himself the understanding to me that he's a chemist. And by his brokenness I know the drugs messed him up as I notice that he often confuses the information he just told me. His eyes look sad despite his smile, and I wonder what can fix him and if someday he might just end up lost or dead on some strange street with strangers that care nothing about him. The gothic teens across from me, don't smile, and their sad perspective of life and living is expressed in a rather ironic way. They hang onto themselves as if their love is the only real thing is this world, and the guy sitting next to me is some niave pompous type, as they bitterly roll their eyes at him, as jocks have done to them.

What's possible and what's my lack of innitiative? And yet my soul is as bitter and empty as the next person willing to call themselves a victim. A cut or scar would never bother, and yet I have nothing to prove to anyone. I can't see myself in the future, and as the years pass by, I glance at those I knew and see the immovable me. So stuck and plastered to 2004. I wish I would have been okay but I'm not and I've understood what little time does change. Can anyone tell me how to mend the wounds that tear at me at night, with tears falling on my pillow, as I glance up to wake up? How do you forgive those that have wounded your soul and your body? How do you move on and stay whole when you can't concentrate enough to try? I have no motivation, and I am willing to admit that I'm lost. I might not cut anymore, I might not huff anymore, but I'm still not okay. I don't cry in group as often as others, don't have nervous breakdowns, but inside the child is still broken. 

He took me to the laundry room and hurt me,

a small child of only seven,

he touched and violated me,

was 1993,

and for years it happened, and every time I died a little,

and so there's no fix to this past,

no bandage for the wound,

just masking tape,

and it holds up well,

until you realize that you have a broken leg,

not a minor cut,

and as it bloodies, as you get older,

the smile on your face becomes a frown,

the passerbys just glance and walk away,

trust is a face I've never known,

to be hurt and abandoned I've known,

to be rejected, to be denied, to be seen as less I've understood my part,

if I would have been gone or taken that year,

would have been better than having to suffer for the years that came,

to later have been hurt again by a total stranger as in adult,

to never find myself,

when will this be over? 

when will i be okay?