alone

I am fourteen years old
And my life has changed
For better or for worse.
Though, in all honesty,
Aren’t all changes good changes?
I want to think so,
But I can’t anymore.
 
I don’t have a family.
Anymore, at least. They’re all
Off on their own adventures; some
Dead, some
Just faded away. As the great
Kurt Cobain said, it’s better to
Fade out than
Burn away. Or maybe vice versa.
I don’t know anything
Anymore.
 
My parents…
It didn’t work out. The rings on their hands
Are now mere ashes, floating
Around in the wind with their voices and
Their love. They split the money,
Gave me a cut,
Left me alone.
 
I’m told that part of becoming
A man is learning how to do things
On your own. Along with learning
How to court ladies, but I
Have had no interest in them for
Quite some time now. I’ve been alone
For maybe four years. Possibly longer, but the past
Five years of my life have just been
An endless blur. Well, not endless,
Otherwise life would still be a blur.
And it is.
Just not as much anymore.
 
I am fourteen years old
And I am a glass windowpane
With a baseball thrown through it. Spiderwebs of
Cracked glass across my body; across the
Windowpane that I threw my baseball in
When I couldn’t watch TV.
It’s like that story they told us
As kids, the one with the egg? Where it
Broke apart, and they tried to put it
Back together? That’s what it’s like
With me. Only I have no one
To help glue me back together.
 
Some parts
Of my broken glass have repaired themselves;
Absence makes the heart grow fonder (but
Fonder of what, exactly? Love? Lust? I’ve had
No one to love since I was
Eleven. So can anyone tell me
What the heart grows fonder of?
No.
You can’t. you have to
Decide that for yourself, and I have to
Decide that for myself. ). Some parts
Of my broken glass have been
Swept away in a secret and silent wind
That steals love and breaks apart
The seemingly unbreakable. Some parts
Of my broken glass have simply
Vanished off the edge of the earth. And while yes,
The world is a sphere (though with a
Slight bulge at the equator), it has
To end somewhere.
Everything ends sooner or
Later.
 
People always say that
They’ll never be the same
From something that happened to them
That makes them think
They’ll never be the same.
Would it be cliché for me to say
That I’ll never be the same? But aren’t
All cliché’s true for the most part? Isn’t that
Why they’re called cliché’s?