I have been out of high school for 17 years now. It was not a nice time for me, and for the most part, I’ve blocked out the memories. However, I recently went to a poetry reading, and it triggered something in the back of my mind. Something I had written in high school. Something I had written in high school and liked. Something I had written in high school, liked, and thought I probably still had. Its last line echoed around in my head.

“But I didn’t understand, and that was too bad.”

Days passed, and I was still haunted by lines that were probably originally inspired by some nonsense high school drama. Or emotions that ran unregulated around my hormonal brain. Maybe a new literary obsession. Who knows? The intent behind my words has long since been lost to me.

“I don’t care that you’re sorry, and I know you messed up. But I didn’t understand, and that was too bad.”

Was I just over glamorizing something from my past in an attempt to save my brain from remembering how embarrassing it was? Or was it truly something worth digging out again?

I had to know.

Logically, if I had kept it for 17 years, written out on a loose piece of paper, over countless moves and life changes, I had to have seen something in it, right?

Where was that folder of-

Ah, yes. The folder of past writings.

“When I’m angry, you don’t understand. When I was destructive, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.”

I dug out the poem and held my breath.

I read it.

I read it again.

And you know what? If I had reread this ten years ago, I would have cringed so hard I left the planet and set the paper on fire in my wake.

But time does funny things to perspective.

It wasn’t bad.

The full thing is as follows:

“When I’m sad, you don’t understand.

When I’m lonely, you don’t understand. That’s too bad.

When I’m normal, you don’t understand.

When I hide behind my smile, you still don’t understand, and that’s too bad.

When I’m angry, you don’t understand.

When I was destructive, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

I don’t care that you’re sorry, and I know you messed up, but I didn’t understand, and that’s too bad.”

Somewhere, under that stresso depresso cry for attention is a really interesting poem. All it needed is a little massaging.

So I massaged it.

“When I’m sad, you don’t understand.

When I was loud, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

When I’m happy, you don’t understand.

When I smiled to hide the sharp knife of my tongue, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

When I’m afraid, you don’t understand.

When I begged for peace with my white flags called teeth, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

I don’t care that you’re sorry, and you say it’s not fair. But I didn’t understand, and that was too bad.”

Which, if I do say so myself, is decent. Poetry is not my first language, but I dabble. Now, it still screams “Not like other girls” or “Manic Pixie Dream Girl”, but it’s BETTER. And better is better. It’s right there in the name.

If I were to take the heart of the poem and make it more about moving from one stage of life to another, I think it might even become something adjacent to ‘good’.

When ocean swells crash against freckled shores, you don’t understand.

When your deep sky eyes swallowed my desperation for summers past, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

When forests of laughter spring up under my leaps of faith, you don’t understand.

When the funeral procession for all my past selves crushed me under a white-hot weight, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

When winds of sweetly scented future draw me ever farther away, you don’t understand.

When the same tendrils that strangled my soul rocked you ever so gently to sleep, you didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

The golden past may have bought your loyalty like a devoted lover, but I didn’t understand, and that was too bad.

What do you think?