Time is not linear, so as I sit and write this poem, I’m being born and I’m dying. I’m suffering and I’m crying. As the old me doubles over wailing so hard I can’t breathe, I’m also a child experiencing the things I’m crying for. I was so alone then. People made fun of me. They ridiculed me, A CHILD, for being obese and dirty, without ever once asking WHY I was that way. My therapist would say that thats just the way things were then, dismissing my pain as if to say get over it already. So as I suffered alone, so do I alone heal, save the help of people online that I’ve never met, which speaks to just how fucking strong I am, and how determined, to do what I can for that little kid that no one gave a fuck about. If I could reach across the multiverse, I would hold you in my arms and tell you that to the extent I’m able, I love you, kid. You, dear child, inspire me.