mcprobchild

[mcprobchild]

Prison: Pt. 2

I hadn’t been there long,

but I knew it was bound to happen.

I just didn’t see it coming.

My head hit the floor first,

and I’d never heard that sound before.

Blood poured from my nose,

and I opened my eyes,

but only saw static.

Someone stepped on the back of my neck

to hold me down

while the others went to work.

I think it was a knee

that dropped straight into my lower back.

Then a foot to my stomach,

again,

and again,

and again.

One of them stomped me across the cheek.

My head bounced,

my mouth went slack.

I tried to spit blood,

but it just dripped down my chin,

into my throat.

I gagged on it,

choked,

coughed,

and watched it spray red across the floor

as my vision blurred in pulses.

Then, my arm wrenched back,

fast and sharp.

There was a deep pop

and my shoulder gave out,

falling weightless to the side.

More kicks landed across my spine,

heel after heel,

slamming into muscle and bone.

They left quick,

like they’d been warned.

But I didn’t hear anything.

I couldn’t hear anything.

I laid there leaking,

blood in my eyes,

my nose,

my mouth.

Breathing soft.

With my jaw hung so wrong

I couldn’t close it.

When the guards showed up,

one of them nudged me with a boot,

just to see if I was still alive.

They wheeled me into the infirmary

on a cold, squeaky gurney.

They stitched my face,

eye swollen shut,

eleven above the brow,

seven inside the lip,

a dozen more under the chin.

Reset the shoulder dry,

just a shove and a pop,

and wired my fractured jaw shut.

They told me to breathe shallow.

Said they’d treat me

when I got pneumonia.

Not if— when.

But every breath felt like knives,

and my stomach turned yellow by morning.

I spent four days like that,

flat on a plastic mattress

under buzzing lights,

drinking protein sludge through a straw

with hands too swollen to hold the cup.

Then, when I was “stable,”

they moved me to PC,

like they were doing me a favor.

A favor,

would’ve been sending me back,

because eventually,

someone would have ended my nightmare.

[mcprobchild]

Childhood: Pt. 2

I didn’t talk much,

kept my eyes down,

hands in my pockets,

and tried not to take up space.

I may have been young,

but I’d already learned

that needing people

only taught you how to be disappointed.

They still picked me.

Cornered me in a hallway

and beat the shit out of me

just for existing.

I didn’t tell anyone.

Not because I was brave,

but because I was already embarrassed

to exist.

Already depressed.

Already tired of being the wrong kind of boy.

The next day, I didn’t even think.

Just stood up,

walked across the lunchroom,

and hit him so hard my hand stung for hours.

They pulled me off him

before I could decide if I felt better.

They called my mom from the principal’s office.

She came in clutching her pearls

like it could undo what I’d done.

She didn’t ask what happened.

She asked what I did.

Grounded me for a month.

Told me I was getting a “spirit of violence.”

Told me to pray for forgiveness.

I wanted to ask her

why she only saw me

after I broke something.

But I didn’t,

because I already knew.

I wasn’t the kind of kid you save.

I was the kind you pray about

behind closed doors.

The kind you punish

so the good ones see what happens

when you turn out wrong.

So I stayed quiet.

And got angrier.

And better at hiding it.

And by the time they noticed

something was really wrong…

I was already someone they didn’t recognize.

[mcprobchild]

Addiction: Pt. 13

One pill, I could breathe.

Two, I didn’t care.

Three, the world could’ve ended

and I wouldn’t have noticed.

They didn’t make me high anymore.

They just made me less.

Less angry.

Less loud.

Less alive.

and that was the point.

It wasn’t about feeling good.

It was about not feeling like me.

Being me means remembering,

and remembering hurts.

So I took one.

Then another.

Then another,

because I didn’t know how to stop

once the silence started.

I lied to people.

Stared them in the eye

and said I was clean

with a pill dissolving under my tongue.

I cried on bathroom floors

because I ran out

and knew exactly what I’d do for more.

I hated what it had done to me,

but I hated who I was without it more.

That’s the sickest part.

Not the withdrawal

not the cravings,

not even the guilt.

It’s the truth that still,

if you held out your hand right now

with two pills in your palm…

I’d hate myself for wanting them,

and I’d hate myself more for walking away.

Because sometimes, at 2am,

I’m staring at the ceiling

with my teeth clenched.

Thinking-

just one more.

To make it quiet.

To make it soft.

To make it stop.

To float.

To feel peace.

To feel dead,

but not completely.

So tell me…

what part of that

would you walk away from?

[mcprobchild]

Women: Pt. 7

I still see her in the rearview—

cigarette glow, cracked lipstick,

eyes full of hope

she should’ve never wasted on me.

My knuckles remember the steering wheel

like they remember her hips:

tight grip,

white-hot,

always ending in a crash.

She wore cheap perfume.

Smelled like my mother.

Made me sick

in a way I couldn’t explain.

Still let her stay,

but only for a little while.

[mcprobchild]

Healing: Pt. 10

They say “you’ve changed.”

As if i didn’t dig the grave myself

and climb in willingly.

As if there was ever a version of me

worth keeping alive.

[mcprobchild]

Addiction: Pt. 12

I’ve had more needles in my life

than birthday candles.

Celebrated survival the same way,

alone,

half-lit,

and almost out.

No cake.

No songs.

Just another year I wasn’t supposed to see,

burning slow,

with smoke in my throat,

and no one clapping.

[mcprobchild]

Religion: Pt. 1

I don’t believe in God…

but I still flinch when I pass a church.

Like maybe the guilt knows something I don’t,

or the flame still remembers the match.

I don’t pray…

but I do count ceiling tiles

in rehab rooms like rosary beads,

one for every time I swore I’d stop.

I don’t kneel…

but I’ve learned how to beg

in parking lots and locked bathrooms,

beneath flickering lights

and the weight of my own name.

I don’t go to confessional…

but I’ve told strangers on sidewalks

things I’ve never said sober

and walked away cleaner.

They say hell is below.

But mine wears my face,

sleeps in my bed,

writes stupid poems like this

and calls it “healing.”

[mcprobchild]

Healing: Pt. 9

Usually up by two.

No alarms,

just a switch that flips

somewhere inside my brain.

I make coffee like it’s a rule.

Two scoops. No sugar. No cream.

Just something hot and bitter

to remind me that I still feel things.

It fills the room with a smell,

one I don’t mind sharing the dark with.

I sit by the window while it brews.

Watch a street that hasn’t moved since yesterday.

No cars. No people.

Just that orange streetlight

that flickers like it’s giving up too.

People think early risers are productive.

I’m not.

I just can’t stand dreaming

when there’s nothing I want to see.

So I lace up my shoes,

step out,

and keep my head straight

so no one sees me

and thinks I’m something to fear.

But if I’m honest,

sometimes I am.

Just not tonight.

[mcprobchild]

Women: Pt. 6

She told me once,

“You drive like you don’t care to live.”

She wasn’t wrong.

I ran lights, floored it through curves,

let the engine scream loud enough

to drown the shit in my head.

But I never drove like that

with a woman in the car.

Not because I’m noble.

Not because I’m polite.

But because, if I wrecked,

I wanted to make sure

it was only me in the ditch.

I couldn’t bear the thought

of sitting in some hospital chair,

face torn up, ribs cracked,

trying to explain to some girl’s mom

why her kid’s in critical

because I needed to feel something.

I’d rather wrap myself

around a telephone pole alone

than carry that kind of blood.

And I tried.

God, I tried.

There’s a road outside Spokane,

backcountry, no guardrail,

slick with ice half the year.

First time I took that curve too fast,

I let go of the wheel.

Didn’t touch the brake.

Just whispered, please.

I slid off the edge,

dropped down a slope, and waited.

The hit. The twist. The end.

But the truck landed soft.

No crunch. No shatter.

Just a slow stop

in a patch of frozen grass,

like the world had decided

I didn’t get off that easy.

Not a bruise.

Not a single dent.

I sat there,

headlights cutting through the dark

like none of it ever happened.

And I went back.

Again.

And again.

Taunted that same turn

like it owed me something.

Faster, sharper, harder.

I prayed one day the ice

would stop being kind.

It never did.

Turns out some roads

don’t want to kill you.

They just want to watch you beg.

Make a show out of desperation.

[mcprobchild]

Healing: Pt. 8

I almost called you last week.

No reason in particular.

I drove past that old gas station,

the one where you bought me coffee once,

just because I looked like hell.

You didn’t ask why,

just handed me a cup and said, “drink.”

I’m sorry

for the parts of me you had to witness.

But thank you

for caring anyway.

[mcprobchild]

Addiction: Pt. 11

I want to vomit,

that’s how bad I want it.

I can feel it in my teeth,

coming back.

It’s not a thought.

It’s a fucking need.

I want to use.

I want to drink.

I want to wreck myself so hard

I don’t wake up for two days

and no one asks why.

I swear to God,

if someone handed me a bottle,

I wouldn’t even hesitate.

I’d down it like I was dying of thirst.

I feel sick.

Physically sick.

Every muscle wired like I’m about to fight,

but there’s no one to swing at.

Just me.

Just this.

Don’t talk to me about breathing.

Or mindfulness.

Or how far I’ve come.

I want the burn.

I want to ruin something.

I want the world to shut the fuck up

for just one goddamn minute.

I want to shut it off.

Shut me off.

No one would even be surprised.

They’d just nod,

like yeah,

figured he’d fuck it up eventually.

[mcprobchild]

Prison: Pt. 1

The lights never turned off.

They hummed like they’re judging.

Like they know what you did,

even if you didn’t.

Try closing your eyes to that.

They just want to see if you’ll break.

You will.

They don’t see people.

They see meat.

They see entertainment.

They strip you for sneezing,

beat you for breathing wrong.

One guy mouthed off…

I watched him seize on the floor

after a boot crushed his temple.

I heard a man hang himself three cells down.

They say he used a sheet,

but all I remember is the thud.

Sounded like meat hitting concrete.

Guards didn’t come for a while.

When they did,

they left him for longer.

You learn to walk eyes down,

shoulders tucked,

mouth shut.

Get small or get stomped.

Don’t smile. Don’t stare. Don’t ask.

Learn the rules even if they change every day.

The stab came in the shower.

A toothbrush melted to a point.

No warning.

Just plastic slicing into me.

Two hits,

one in the ribs,

one across the thigh.

I slipped in my own blood.

Crawled to the wall.

They let me.

They wanted to see how long I’d last.

I bled through orange for three days.

Clutched my side,

stuffed my t-shirt into the wound.

Slept in shifts,

if you can call passing out sleeping.

Flinched every time someone walked by.

They put me in the hole after that.

For my own good, they said.

Solitary.

Seg.

You forget your own name in there.

A cement box that smells like mildew,

bleach,

and shit.

One blanket.

No clock.

No sound but the buzz

and the scream inside your skull.

You talk to stains on the wall

just to hear something else.

Still, the light never shuts off.

I saw things in there.

Felt things crawling on my skin.

Scratched until I bled.

Left half-moons in my arms

from clenching too hard.

I’d count bricks

just to keep time.

Whispered full conversations

with people who weren’t real.

Said sorry to my reflection

until it stopped answering.

They let me out seven years ago.

Said I “did my time.”

But I didn’t leave.

Not really.

Parts of me are still in that box,

curled up in the corner,

afraid to breathe.

Still waiting for the next punch,

the next scream,

the next betrayal.

I didn’t sleep.

Not really, until last year.

I used to leave every light on.

Sometimes I’d sleep sitting up,

just so I could be ready

if someone came through the door.

I’d wake up mid-dream, fists clenched,

heart racing like it forgot I was free.

People say I should be healing.

But they never saw rats eat off a tray

while the guy just let them.

Never heard bones crack,

never woke up to screaming

and never smelled blood that wasn’t theirs.

I never relearned how to sleep.

I just learned how to stay alive

with my eyes closed

[mcprobchild]

Women: Pt. 5

You were the first

to fall asleep in my bed,

and I watched you breathe,

like you were something

I might never get back.

I didn’t sleep—

How could I?

You were peace,

I’d only ever known survival.

Now you're here again.

Older.

Softer.

Just as stubborn.

You say you love me,

I was the one who made you feel safe.

You say you should’ve stayed,

shouldn’t have given up.

But back then,

I was still choosing chaos,

And you were trying to save yourself.

Now, I choose quiet, but-

you’re louder in my head than ever.

How do I know if I miss you,

or just the version of me you saw—

before I could see him myself?

Maybe we lost each other

to the wrong time,

and maybe we just want to believe

that time owes us something back.

What if right person,

wrong time,

was just wrong?

How do I know

this isn’t just the past

wearing a different face?

How do I know if

I’m ready to let you follow me,

or if I’m just too scared

to walk this alone.

What if we’re not supposed

to fix what was broken,

but learn how to move forward

without the weight?

But what if this time

we get it right?

What if we needed

to become the people

who could finally love each other

the way we always wanted?

Maybe we were never meant

to get it right the first time.

Maybe all we needed

was time to learn how to last.

But maybe,

we were never meant.

At all.

[mcprobchild]

Women: Pt. 4

You disappear when it suits you,

shut the world out, drown in your own silence.

But if someone else tried?

If they ignored the calls, left you guessing?

You’d set the world on fire just to get back in.

You make the rules, break them,

cry when no one saves you,

but won’t answer the door when they try.

And the rest of us?

We’re left pacing the room,

re-reading the last message,

wondering if you’ll ever care as much as you expect us to.

[mcprobchild]

Healing: Pt. 7

I didn’t ask to be shattered.

I didn’t ask to wake up choking.

To live inside a body that doesn’t feel like home,

to carry memories that rot me from the inside out.

I didn’t ask for the blood.

Didn’t ask to watch someone die.

Didn’t ask to feel it, to smell it,

to have it stain my skin so deep

I swear I’ll never be clean again.

And yet here I am,

dragged through the wreckage,

through the “healing,”

through the “growth,”

like I should be fucking grateful

for the chance to claw my way back to a life

I no longer recognize.

I get to wake up every day

and fight a battle I never started,

clean up a mess I didn’t make,

live in a mind that is no longer my own.

I didn’t fucking ask for this.

But I have to carry it anyway.

And it makes me sick.

[mcprobchild]

Insomnia: Pt. 3

I just want to sleep through the night;

to sink deep and weightless.

To drift into a dream that feels fake,

instead of running from what feels real.

I want to wake up rested.

Not to press my palms into my eyes,

and wish the night away.

But instead, I’m here.

Wide-eyed in dim light,

listening to the hum of nothing.

I close my eyes,

but my body doesn’t believe me.

It waits, tense, bracing,

as if something is coming—

because something always does.

Morning will come,

too soon, too fast.

And I will rise, exhausted,

knowing the next will be the same.

[mcprobchild]

Addiction: Pt. 10

The bottle’s ghost still lingers.

Its promises to taste like quiet,

like pause, like a break

from the sting that now cuts clean.

Sober feels like a raw wound,

the same pain, sharper now,

every edge unblunted,

every ache exposed.

There’s no fog to slip into,

no velvet lie to cradle my mind.

I stand here, naked in the mirror,

the weight of truth pressed heavy,

and it doesn’t feel like freedom.

It feels like suffocating clarity,

like drowning without water,

choking on air too thin to carry me.

I don’t want to be here,

in skin that remembers everything.

Sober makes the hours too long,

and the nights too loud.

The craving isn’t for the drink.

Not the burn, not the taste—

but for the quiet it once gave.

Now, the silence screams.

and I wonder,

what’s the point of healing

if the pain still finds me?