My Spontaneous Me

I once was a teenager,

contemplating the sea,

from a rock,

in dark cold wintery night.

I had just come out of a spiritual retreat,

with the intent of not going back.

I wanted to end my life.

I was the laughing stock of my friends,

the disapproval of my teachers,

the leprosy to my nuns.

I was different.

I was unwanted.

I loved a girl.

They loved boys,

or god.

There was no place for me,

amongst my friends,

to my teachers,

to my parents,

to society.

I closed the door,

saying goodbye to life,

to my few things.

Curious of who,

would have missed me.

I perched on that rock,

the sea was deep.

I knew,

that it was cold.

I knew that with my heavy boots,

swimming would be difficult.

Hypothermia would soon come.

I had studied it at school.

I observed,

the reflected twinkling of the light lamps,

of that society,

I longed to escape.

I do not know what held me.

There was not even the moon.

Maybe my soul,

although lost and delirious,

tired of dying,

always so early,

rekindled that desire:

to want,

to live,

at all costs.

I took a stone,

and with all my anger,

threw it,

as far away,

as my cry of pain,

could take.

I took another,

and then another,

until no residual strength,

closed my fingers.

I turned back to where I came.

Little did I knew then,

that I did pay a price,

on that altar.

I had left to bleed to death,

my spontaneous me.