Flashbacks.

Chain-smoking, choking back tears from years of being broken,
I find it more difficult than ever to melt my heart that has became an expert at being frozen.
Like a bell that chimes to deaf ears, I know it is time for me to disappear,
as I feel like a guest that's not only overstayed their welcome
but also lost everyone's respect.
I have became the poster child for neglect,
now that I've made a habit of running from anything that could make me upset.
Layers of build-up have made me smile on the surface when I feel completely worthless,
like a lie, repeated enough to make it real.
We have only just begun to scratch the skin of the shipwreck that lies within.
As I descend, I see that each tier is a level into the fiery pits of Hell.
It seemed harder to conceal the tireless trauma
than to learn to cope motivated by the possibility of getting stronger.
There was no method to my madness when I lashed out at nearly everyone,
accusing anyone but me for my own sadness.
Substance abuse provided an easy escape route from my issues
that are exacerbated now from the result of being refused.
Each attempt I've made to vocalize my pain has made my throat hoarse as my words got lodged between the racing thoughts and their regime.
I need a cure, the kind that only unconditional love can provide,
but my wells have dried; my thirst so dire that I begged to die.
My fears of failing one more time have me scared for my life; I must succeed,
I cannot keep refusing every lifeline.
Each memory rushes in and I am besieged,
forced to confront every element that haunts me permanently,
whether I'm awake or in my dreams.
Afflicted when I should have been free to adopt my own sexual identity;
attacked, held hostage in disbelief, that this could also happen to me.
I blame myself for the irreparable damage caused
when I was carved like meat on different plates then swallowed by predatory mouths.
Objectified, so now I feel dehumanized and displaced because
I am unsure of how to continue without the facade.
I am not okay, nor am I just fine; I'm hurt,
irate and wish these troubles were not mine.
Sinking deeper into myself, I was shocked to find
the lost little boy that I left behind somehow still fighting to stay alive;
I was convinced he had been dead for years, replaced by this man
that I have no idea what it even means to be.
All I ever wanted was compassion, but instead I am slave to others' sympathy.