When I was a child I would say I’m okay when I wasn’t.
My father would dismiss me as weak.
My mother would dismiss me as misguided.
Sent to my room for having a heartbeat.
I packed my things again.
There wasn’t time to tell anyone.
There never was.
The backseat of the car again.
Watching everything you know retreat into the rear view mirror,
And beneath the horizon.
Every love. Every safe place. Every connection severed.
My whole life in a tiny red backpack.
Doodads. A book or two. Some of my favorite clothes.
It’s happening again and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Nothing I can say.
When I was an adolescent I would say I’m okay when I wasn’t.
My peers would abandon me if I brought the mood down.
They feared anything that wasn’t smiling at them.
“You good, bro?”
“Yeah, yeah I’m good.”
Waking up in places where nobody knows you and no one wants to.
Trying to tighten yourself around people.
I left every single one of them.
And every single one of them let me go.
Only the essentials.
Toothbrush. Fresh clothes. A few road snacks.
“If you can’t fit it in your backpack, leave it.”
“If you needed it you’d make room for it.”
The engine starts. I see my breath.
Bye everything again.
When I was a young man I stopped saying I was okay when I wasn’t.
Calls stopped.
Messages became scarce.
I drifted away like the seed of a dandelion.
Pacing around the room.
Remembering the past alone.
Fantasizing about the future alone.
Waiting for a day when memories can love you back.
My whole life in an empty red backpack.
You don’t understand why.
You won’t be able to until it’s too late.
You never had a chance to.
Day dreaming and lashing out at nothing.
Forget it once and it’s gone forever.
Locking the door from the inside and pretending I can’t get out.
No old friends.
No reminiscing about the times that were once had.
Because there were no times.
A broken tree branch whisked through the air,
is scorned for not having roots when it lands.
Passing the time before the winds pick up again.
No one suffers in silence.
The mind is loud on its own.
But please don’t worry.
I’m okay.
Poem: Tiny Red Backpack
I love this poem.