16

A Poem by laila

only receiving comfort from those who’ve hurt you

i am 8 years old,
crying in the arms of my mother,
after hearing the bellowing roar of her anger,
unleashed at me.
she puts a tissue to my face,
drying my tears,
and kisses my forehead.
as the stream dries,
i am at ease once again.

i am 11 years old,
clutching my knee
after an unfortunate run-in
with a rather unforgiving sidewalk.
i watch my stepfather walk forth
with a first aid kit.
he bandages me up,
and rubs my head lovingly,
making me forget the piercing shatter of ceramic,
and the plethora of obscenities
that i heard the night before.

suddenly i am 15, seeing my crying mother in pale hospital lighting.
though it was me, and not her
soaking in the discomfort
of the cotton/polyester blend
of the emergency room blankets.
she bombards me with an assortment
of “i’m sorry’s”
as the feel of my suicide attempt
lingers in the air,
reminding me of the searing fact
that i’m sat in a room
with the very reason i tried in the first place.
still, a part of me seemed content with the comfort. she was my mother after all.

and then i was 16,
lying next to you,
listening to the graceful thump of your heart,
as mine swelled with joy
at the privilege of having you next to me.
as i felt your hands wandering through my hair,
and the press of your soft lips on my eager cheek,
i realized my inexperience to receiving comfort, when i didn’t “need it.”
i was unfamiliar with the idea
that anyone would want to comfort me,
without hurting me first.

but now i am 16,
and i cry alone,
longing to feel your warm embrace,
and your thumb drying the river
running down my face.
and as the years pass by,
i’ve come to realize,
the only way i can seem to find comfort,
is within those
that are the very reason i crave it in the first place.