ALSA For the 3,200,000 Australians battling, transitioning, or lost to mental illness. You are held dear in my thoughts. In the nursery, you hid behind pink patterned walls. And when a sigh left my lips, you cradled me – cold, a godforsaken shawl. As moons phased, in and out phases of quiescence, your silhouette would dawn over innocent heavens. The twilight of my youth. Stronger then, you claimed everything, everything under the stars and soft soil, planting seeds of fear that other voices no less inspired, have followed; and then blossomed, whispering to me: (“Weak. Never good enough”) Ghostly hands, pressed me back. Back in my head I riddled, yet never rid of Thoughts. For he was far worse than you.
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At home, cultural indoctrination, heavy hands branding us with routine education. My mama mused, often a social maxim, “look at how well s/he is doing…” Silence. She did not know how you felt, and even if she tried, she could not tend to wounds that could never be reached. My papa mused, often an age old address, “how are you?” Silence. Once more, a sigh left my lips.
Anonymous
