They took my confessions through the iron bars
Writing them down word for word
They used them to fill their memoirs
Knees down in the dirt
Pray to end the hurt
Can I be someone else”
My lids squeezed shut, and I lost myself in the words, in the images that flashed through my mind like a grainy home movie. There were nights locked inside my empty apartment or in a hotel room in whatever state we were in. Even when there was some nameless person lying beside me, I was still alone.
I pictured gossip rag headlines and Google searches filled with stories about me. Some were true, but even when they weren’t, I never tried to fight it or say they were wrong. For so long, I’d allowed myself to believe their narratives. They’d picked apart my bones to build their campfires, and I’d been handing them marshmallows to roast.
“Fed my last meal and swallowed my last rites
The judge said there’d be no stay of execution
So I prayed for death to snuff me out
And bury me in the walls of this institution
Knees down on shards of glass
What if this too shall never pass
And I can’t be someone else
I hand off my belongings to the friends I never made
A death row inmate sentenced to a life of freedom
Where he’ll spend his days longing to mean something
To a world who refuses to see him
Knees bruised and broken
Crushed by the weight of words unspoken
Can this rusted vessel ever be golden
Will my heart ever be open
To someone else”
I strummed the last note, letting it fade. The room was silent for a moment before it erupted into applause and cheers. When I finally opened my eyes, I found many people, my friends included, dabbing at their eyes with napkins.
My chest constricted, my heart bursting with something that felt a lot like happiness. These people heard my story and didn’t reject me. Judging from the looks on some of their faces, they might’ve even recognized parts of themselves within my lyrics. It felt like acceptance after a lifetime of being rejected or merely tolerated. It felt like redemption.
McKenzie beamed up at me as tears streaked down her cheeks, radiating love and pride. I took a moment to soak it all in, to revel in the roads I’d traveled to get here. At nearly forty years old, I felt like I finally made it.
“Thank you,” I said as the clapping slowed. “I’ve got one more song to play for you all tonight. I wrote it for someone who means the world to me. She showed me what it is to love someone. For the first time in my life, I have somewhere I belong. It’s called ‘Coming Home.’ McKenzie, this one’s for you.”
TWENTY-FIVE
McKenzie
