Playground

I hear the sounds of other 6 year olds sneakers’, pounding down on the wooden planks above my head. Laying flat in the sand pit under the playground, in the cool damp shade, a drizzle of sand siphons down over my face. Brushing the rough coarseness off my face, I gulp. Tasting a few specks of hard, crunchy sand between my molars.

They laugh, and scream above me. Running, playing hide and go seek. Little boys screaming like girls. Little girls screaming like boys. I clasp my hands, twiddle my thumbs, waiting for them to give up looking for me.

10 years later, I found myself laying under the same playground in Santa Rita. After a yelling match with my dad, about finishing my Eagle Scout project — I ran out of the house. Slammed my fist into a tree, and walked the short blocks to the school. From 10pm to 7am, it got cold. Looking for cardboard boxes to put over my goose-bump laden body.

No sneakers pounding overhead tonight. Just memories, angry thoughts slamming into the sides of my skull, squeezing the life out of my jagged brain.