The first time I sat down and wrote
I was just a little girl
Eleven... Twelve?
What a terrible thing to happen to a child
I read Bridge to Terabithia and wept bitterly
I just couldn't understand why anyone had to die
So I tried to turn it around
Have a story rewrite itself into perfection
But I quickly discovered the ending
That endings are the healing after heartbreak
And without the pain
There is no satisfaction in the ******
No release after the buildup
No rest after release
And it just made me notice
But that's not what I want to talk about just now
That's not the kind of mood I'm in
No, I'm in the kind of thrall that's only present
When you've already lost it all but almost no one knows
When you thought you knew how
And you thought that you could do this
But no one's sure you did it right
And no one really cares anyway
When I'd rather rave and rail
Thrash against the pain
And scream against the chains I know I wear
But cannot see them with my eyes
And who do I believe out there
All they say
The mysterious, murderous, undefined "they"
They say that good is evil, and evil good
And sin is art and art is something you can judge and **** and curse
And no two sides will take my side
Because there is no spectrum
Just a line you cross or do not cross
But I think I must exist somewhere
Lost between the infinitely small sides of the invisible line
And the middle ground is me
But there is no middle ground
Just a little girl who thought
That she could write her misery
Out of existence when she burned the pages
The pages of the Bridge on which she died