Only Sixteen

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Only Sixteen.”

I was only 16. By that time of my life I’d already learnt one of the biggest lessons of my lifetime: trust no one but yourself. 

I was alone. I’d walk the streets of the heavily graffitied city and maybe even leave a mark of my own. I was alone and I was angry. Really angry.

To my arrogance I had blamed my loneliness on my parents; with whom I had become increasingly hostile with as of late. Argument after argument. I got tired of it all so I left. Thinking I could do it all on my own. 

Ha! Pure arrogance right there. I couldn’t survive a week on the streets without turning to questionable means of survival.

You name it I can guarantee you I have done it. It was a desperate couple of months. You’d have done the same.

About a month after, on the eve of my 16th birthday I met a boy. A man it seemed. But how can one call him a man given the cowardice that was his very soul? I thought he was kind. I thought he meant all he said. Ignorance. It was all ignorance. 

I gave him comfort, food and shelter all that he needed in exchange for one thing: he’d soothe my loneliness. 

I won’t lie, he did. However momentarily. Then it all came crashing down upon me when I stumbled to the morning and reached my hand over to feel his brown hair. Nothing. There was nothing there. The bastard left. I searched around the home I had made for myself to find that a large amount of the belongings I had scoured from around town had been taken. He not only stole my trust and in turn my faith in all, but the things that I had worked so hard for.

I was sixteen. Only sixteen.

The Tale of a Serotonin Junkie – A Short Story

Ever since I was a child I’d always loved the feeling of the warm sun hitting my skin. As a teenager I’d sink my feet right into the sand as I’d wait for my skin to tan. Years later I’d always return to that same beach. A sort of pilgrimage if you will. It was a nice reminder of the beautiful earth that lay sprawled amongst the chaos of humanity’s own creation. It seems we are constantly running away from ourselves. We go to work, lead boring lives just to escape it one day. Life was made to be lived and all we seem to do is slave over it. Die before we’ve even gotten the chance to live. I guess you could say I’m still just the same free spirit that I was in my youth. Some people never change. Some realise and mature, accept their role in the world and work 9 to 5, 5 days a week. Some die young; crash and burn before they get the chance to turn 30. Others never loose that spark but remain part of the community. Then there’s me: I’ve always just been a serotonin junkie. 

The Last Letter – A Poem

 Once I loved
A soul I hated
For my heart he painted
The colour of gold

The crows they grew
Walking along the creases
Bordering those ageing, emerald eyes

His thin lips they smiled
Showing the years of laughter
Forming those obvious little lines
However, smothered by his salty stubble

His calloused hands
Clutching mine all those years ago
In painful silence we witnessed
The landslide as it fell

His coffee stained hair
Cut short and fluffy to touch
Forever only dusted with hints of silver
Which he had always wanted

Pity, how his eyes would quickly darken
And his hair turn to grease
His hands turn to bones
Only held up by the veins

I watched as the man I loved slowly turn to dust
Aching to be cradled in the comforting arms of God
And; It was all my fault

I remember the day he acted
Upon those tempting thoughts of hatred
Staining that old library door

His green eyes shone no more
His thin lips showed no expression
His face was cold and numb
He hung from the ceiling
As he welcomed Death’s greedy grip

I crumpled to that cursed floor
Waves of sorrow flooded through the inconsolable bellows
Those salty tears forever stained on my lips

I looked up, to the broken man before me
The man with the laughter lines hidden behind his bushy beard
I leaned in for one last kiss
A loud sob in every breath
I had never wanted this

I look over past his shoulder
To his well-loved mahogany desk
A glance of white, a note I see
In his writing, addressed to me:

“Once I loved
A soul I hated
For my heart she painted
The colour of gold”