Matei raven collage 7

M.B.

United Kingdom

"To see the world, things dangerous to come, to see behind walls, draw closer, to find each other, and to feel. That is the purpose of life."

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Message from Writer

Seventeen-year-old girl nursing a deep adoration of classical literature, world mythologies, and world history. Devoted to languages, coffee, house plants, and vikings. Hoping to make a mark on the world.

A Story Stranger Than All My Dreams

September 18, 2019

PROMPT: Year by Year

1
Year One: I have become
     a foam-speck on the sea, dust caught beneath the sun.
     My mother's lost - she's barely twenty -
     and my father's quit university.
     I think they're smiling, but I'm still blind,
     and I don't know yet if I've broken their lives.

Year Two: I am still new
     and I am growing, still staying true.
     We've found a home - it's small, but cosy -
     and my parents sit in harmony.
     I play beside them, but I'm still deaf,
     and I don't know if many sugar days are left.

Year Three: I'm impossibly happy
     with a fragile life, a wretched family.
     Someone's crying - not from agony -
     and somebody walks out; the first casualty.
     I watch him go, but I'm still mute,
     and my mind paints a damning picture of his mood.

Year Four: I am reborn,
     alone with my mum, her face forlorn.
     Dad visits - too frequently -
     and I don't know whether to smile or flee.
     He laughs a lot, but I'm still hurt,
     'cause saw him make mum cry, and her tears burned.

Year Five: I see fresh life
     as a boy is born, my cousin in strife.
     Everyone smiles - he's sublime, heavenly -
     and I wonder if he could be my remedy.
     I see him sleep, my chest knots, still sad,
     'cause my brother by spirit's not mine to have.

Year Six: I have new tricks
     and I have mischief, an energy fix.
     My first friend's here - she's so smiley and lively -
     and I think her love defies eternity.
     Dad still lingers, but I'm still scared,
     and I wonder how much of his fire I share.

Year Seven: I'm not broken
     as I dance by starlight, cartwheeling freedom.
     There's a party - no-one's lonely -
     and the summer sun sets on a hot frenzy.
     I think they're drunk, but I'm still young,
     so I climb apple trees instead, and have my own fun.

Year Eight: I finally feel great
     and endless in soul, as my heart elates.
     She has arrived - Infinity -
     and she's more like a sister than Mum thinks she should be.
     I adore her, but I'm still a bit numb,
     and I can't feel her pain quite as well as some.

Year Nine: I think I'm fine
     and I start to write, build worlds to call mine.
     My passion grows - it sets me free -
     into a blissful abyss, and it consumes me.
     I'm a writer, but I'm still new,
     and sometimes I fear there are things I can't do.

Year Ten: I hold a pen
     in immature hands, as vulgar as Men.
     I'm volatile - a killing spree -
     though still I'm too sheltered, can hardly see.
     I feel my growth, but I'm still pained;
     I feel wild and beastly, unrestrained.

Year Eleven: I am open
     to a vicious world, a wound left rotten.
     The new faces - they surround me -
     are violent and hurtful and ignore my plea.
     Some are kinder, but I'm still small,
     and I flinch from their touch, I begin to fall.

Year Twelve: I start to delve
     deep into myself, that blacked well
     I just can't hide - don't disagree! -
     from their murderous, macabre symphony.
     Someone's laughing, but I'm so far gone,
     deep into the putrid madness where I belong.
     It never ends - this tragedy -
     and I'm so very hated; self-loathing's devotee.
     Nothing's helping, I'm already dead
     and maggots of misery chew my hands instead.

Year Thirteen: I'm coming clean
     to everybody, and to everything.
     I think I'm wrong - it's hard to see -
     but there's no voice left for an apology.
     I hurt people, but I am strong,
     and I'll live with my demons, where I belong.

Year Fourteen: I'm rebelling
     against who I am, vile and sickening.
     I want kindness - I want to feel free -
     and I try to become the best I can be.
     It's working, slowly, but I am a bit strange,
     and I don't think this is how I am meant to behave.

Year Fifteen: I have found peace
     in my shining sea, my golden fleece.
     I am smiling - can I call myself happy? -
     with Father, Cousin, and sister stood with me.
     I'm still sore now, and I am glad
     because I know one day it won't be so bad.
First written two years ago, when I was fifteen. It's nice to remind myself of how much further I've come since then. I think my younger self would be very, very proud.

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