So much time has past,

since I have walked the halls

that were and still are,

layered with memories.

Fond, or painful,

I remember. Every time i go back,

I feel the beating of hearts,

the drumming, the loud humming,

Of footsteps trotting by.

In the rush of exhilaration,

when hall doors would close,

and I was trapped, suffocating,

dieing in the anxiety that took over my body.

Perhaps, I felt too much.

A bit over dramatic.

Silenced by orders,

pushed around by chains

that bid me to stay.

Stillness fell upon me,

as everything blurred by

I sat on the steps, remembering.

The passerby's so eagerly holding hands,

laughing, talking about anything.

Fashion, boys, girls, sex, drugs.

The things that helped us escape the rules,

each one a "don't do".

I walk towards the playing field,

where I bashed the ball around,

pretending it was someone's head,

mainly my parents and siblings,

but more so the peers that damaged my soul.

The yelling of home pounded my head,

Dad yelling at Mom,

Mom and Dad going after my sisters

for wrong doings,

and I in my bedroom, or in the bathroom,

doing what I ought not be doing.

But i didn't care, it was another release.

They wouldn't listen,

inside I was screaming, "listen please";

But I was pushed to the side, and I didn't like trouble,

so I sat with a blade in hand,

marking,

inserting my words on my,

in my blood, then watched them leak.

Pills too took the pain away,

the blurred view I once took with me to school.

Now I remember too,

I took the stairs to the second floor.

I remember the taunts, "hey gay girl",

I thought no one knew.

I told not a soul,

and so inside me it grew,

and built up.

In denial I flew.

Dated guys to convince

those who found me guilty of crime,

for loving the wrong kind.

To the old classroom,

where i spent most my time.

I sat in the desk, I once called mine.

I listen to the words spoken

and read those who helped me escape,

in literary works.

It was then I found my voice.

I sat in the chair remembering.

The day my scars were revealed,

that secret leaked and I was scared.

I "couldn't" do it, not the blade to my skin.

Not in class that day,

when I was asked,

and i couldn't lie.

And so,

I drew pictures,

repeated pictures of me

hanging between life and death.

Part 2

Between life and death,

we all are wandering souls.

took me a while to understand.

To leave the classroom, the halls, the stairways,

The teachers, the peers, etc.

Were, to me, a reason for to get better.

But

I was wrong. The past haunts and follows

sometimes un-expectedly, and wondered why

It all came back upon going to college.

The new found freedom, the loneliness, separation

from loved ones, trying to find myself or obtain

some sense of what my life was meant to be.

I liked schedule and fulfillment, feeling worthy

and feeling loved.

Yet, entering college, though it gave me a schedule,

my life turned further into the ground.

Being away from the walls that once sheltered me

from the world i did not want to enter.

I was dumped out into the college world,

the adult world, floundering in fear.

In my dorm room i sat, the walls spinning

'round and 'round. from taking

the blade to my skin and popping one to many

pills, but for each failure, each "F" on a test,

I felt i couldn't do my best, that it wasn't my best, even if it was,

so i did what i could do, bleed.

Ironically, it felt good

to see life within me

have control. I could control

when, where, how. Each stroke

was an accomplishment.

Days were spent with my life scheduled around

when i could escape.

And oh, first drinking parties,

I learned what not to do, when I awoke

alone, cold in a hospital room.

They asked questions like

"did you do this on purpose?"

They were stupid. Of course I did it on purpose.

I took my prescription meds knowing i was going to drink,

my plan was as follows, drink and die.

That was attempt number nine.

In time,

I made friends, i worked up some confidence,

I would be loud and happy, then, in a second,

flash, back into my demented mind.

Sad and writing.

Writing of sadness, of life, of mind

A lesson learned after many drunken nights,

smoking, and cutting, was, That I,

Small and Meek, had a life,

had a choice, which was, to live.

Part 3.

Now, I sit, remembering

How I was a few months ago,

in denial of who i was,

scared of who i could become.

I was scared...aren't we all?

But here I sit, in MY walls,

shared by whom I love,

Doing what I want for MYself

Remembering, but moving on.