Giovanni Mangiante is a poet from Lima, Peru. He has work published in Heroin Love Songs, Rat’s Ass Review, Three Rooms Press, Fearsome Critters, The Raven Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Crêpe & Penn, Open Minds Quarterly, and more. In writing, he found a way to cope with BPD.
The deformed child
Sometimes a kid from school would shout that I was a monster while I was inside one of the bathroom stalls daydreaming, skipping a few minutes of class, thinking about my favorite videogame, my low grades, what mom may have had cooked for lunch, if dad was safe at work. I was about 7 years old, and I didn’t respond to any of the insults even when they were yelled right at my face. They had broken me already in kindergarten, and I didn’t even have silence on my side as a weapon. Alienated, underperforming, stopping my legs from taking me into the oncoming traffic, I grew up learning to hate myself in complete, utter abandonment of the self-esteem I would fail to build in the years to come. I have never once blamed my parents for any of this. They have always believed in the beauty no one saw. They have always believed in their son. It’s me who should have believed in himself, but I never did.
still a few rounds left
I wrapped my pants around the doorknob and one of the pant legs around my neck. I sat down looking around my room, saw my dog on my bed giving me a look of curiosity, I muttered "alright" and let myself drop backwards. the noose pressed hard as my legs shot out and my hands tried to untie the knot in a hurry, my dog leaped down from the bed, barked, jumped around, jumped over me, I fought the knot and managed to free myself. I took my dog into my arms and caressed its head; the pants swung mortally from the doorknob like the pendulum of an old-fashioned clock. death happened to be in someone else's bedroom that night.
you've let the weight you carry blind you from seeing you're still burning with youth like a furious and untamed green supernova. you've thought of throwing that weight over the bridge and let it drag you down with its rusted hook claws. don't. bridges are for crossing bridges are for stargazing bridges are not for jumping, my dear. bridges are the way to something better. take a deep breath, cross.