Hole
The hole in the wall told you nothing.
It was obvious to you that the hole was made by a bullet, a
shot gun perhaps, the kind they use to quell free spirits like mine. But it
told you nothing.
It didn’t tell you of the cold I endured as I slept under bridges
looking for myself.
It didn’t tell you of the anguish and agony that you taught
me to put on paper, if only to quiet the darkness that was taking over my soul,
one square millimitre at a time.
It didn’t tell you of the confusion my new found acceptance
in society brought me.
It didn’t tell you that I cannot accept that finally people
are beginning to accept me.
It didn’t tell you the mess my drug use made of my life, and
the countless times I wished I didn’t go into that rabbit hole.
It didn’t tell you that I can’t help but wish I am not a
husband and a father right now.
All it told you was that the bullet came from a gun I fired,
because I was at the end of my rope, and hope
was nowhere in sight.
All you know now is I am gone.
Fiction dedicated in
loving memory of Kurt Cobain, the Voice of My Generation. I wish I knew how to
help you then. You were gone too soon.
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