Getting away turned out to be the easy part—it only took 12 years.
Getting here would prove to be a chaotic mess—22 years hence.
Except I never got better, we never got help, and it slowly got worse.
I could draw the parallels between my father and I
but what would that matter—you only know us from one side.
And they say that children being a product of suicide tend to show a lack of interest, almost as if nothing really matters.
Well, to be candid, let’s just say I know a guy who can vouch for that.
I mean, how do you explain being on a train
wishing it would crash, just so life would slow the fuck down?
Just enough so that even the slightest change of scenery made any sort of sense.
Is this room ok? Isn’t this house nice?
How do you explain not wanting attention because it made you so damn nervous that even the easiest task seemed incomprehensible?
Do you want to go outside? Make some friends?
Who do you turn to when you can see through everything and everyone, knowing they’re in just as much shit as you?
So inward you go—wanting nothing but to be alone.
At some point you come to realize that it’s the only place you can control.
The only catch is, that train never crashes. And everything you thought at some point would be figured out, is just another heart racing conversation you swore you’d never have again.
The only parallel I can draw between the two, is chaos.
The other is our attempt at a logical excuse.
But there is no excuse.
Only tired eyes and apprehension.