When I was a kid I used to think that pork chops and karate chops were the same thing
I thought they were both karate chops
and because my grandmother thought it was cute and because they were my favorite
she let me keep doing it
not really a bit deal
and one day before I realized fat kids weren't designed to climb trees
I fell out of a tree and bruised the right side of my body
I didn't want to tell my grandmother about it because I was scared I'd get in trouble for playing somewhere I shouldn't have been
A few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruise and I got sent to the principals office
from there I was sent to another small room with a really nice lady who ask me all kinds of questions about my life at home
I saw no reason to lie as far as I was concerned
life was pretty good
I told her whenever I am sad my grandmother gives me karate chops
this led to a full scale investigation
and I was removed from the house for three days until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises
news of this silly little story quickly spread through the school and I earned my first nick name
Pork Chop
To this day
I hate pork chops
I'm not the only kid who grew up this way
surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme
about sticks and stones as if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called
and we got called them all
so we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us
that we'd be lonely forever
that we'd never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they build for us in their tool shed
so broken heart strings bled the blues as we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing
don't tell me that hurts less than a broken bone
that an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away
that theres no way for it to metastisize it does
she was 8 years old