I’m sitting outside on the back porch of this empty apartment staring into the blankness of space; all that’s here with me is a star buck’s coffee, my phone, and an Indie band’s album: Wooden Heart. Just then: Across from my view was a kid (looked about eleven) and a Girl (same age), playing on the playground.
I couldn’t help, but to remember what few friends I had at that young age. I would spend my days at the park alone, with not a breath in my sights.
They then, sat down on the stairs of the very same structure they finished playing on. They started talking to each other, most of what I could pull out was muffled words, but I heard a few words here and there.
They were talking about growing up at first and then about trying something they’d never tried before; the girl sat there waiting as if she expected him to do something: I had seen this action before, many times.
He looked at when she looked back up created short, shy, and choppy first kiss; much like mine, except you could tell there’s would be very memorable.
This broke me. I sit here alone sipping on a coffee I picked up after work listening to an album with more importance in its lyrics than in my life. I sit here creeping on these kids, envious of how well things go for them.
Now they’re holding hands.
I can’t help, but to laugh at my pain; seeing these kids having a better childhood than I had brought in a new definition of torture.
I turned up the stereo to drown my thoughts; it wasn’t working. Thoughts empowered me like a victim of rape; I was helpless. I started to reach for my Xanax, and dumped the thirty-day prescription of the white, 2mg pills on the damp concrete; they were ruined.
Their mother’s had called them in, and they obeyed; something I’d never of done.
The thoughts; the torture; the regret; it was over like, just like that. It was like Schizophrenic hearing voices in his or hers head, and growing weary of them, he obeys their request and they quit. But instead of quitting all together, the actions haunt you.
I thought I wasn’t regretful, but not asking a question years ago which could have changed my life today kills me. These kids resurrected my ghosts, and I let them breathe air into my lungs which filled my heart with not life, but remorse, regret, and demons.
My life consists of nothing, but adulthood now; if I was really an adult, though, this wouldn’t be happening now. I want to be a kid again; I want a life of no responsibility, somewhat joy and happiness.
My only regret today, without this negative breath of life, is the childhood I refused to have.