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But I feel much worse
When I'm calling your name
Out of nowhere
When I'm calling to you
And you don't respond
And I grow heavy
And it grows bigger
Feeding off your absence
And I feel
Way
Way
Worse.
God, I've spent so long trying to find the word to describe you
I have tried addictive, but that just wasn't true. Unlike a drug, I don't always have to come back. I could so easily stop... But I just don't want to.
I have tried beautiful, but that would belittle the facade that your pretty little face really is.
And god, you know I've tried wicked. But that is just simply not true. You are so **** amazing... and so **** horrible. But you are not wicked.
And, after all this time, I've found it. The perfect word.
Darling, you are
Intoxicating.
Because I love you,
Wherever you are
And I hope that if you're out there
You're not very far
Because I hate you,
whoever you are
I hate that you
Are so very far
I miss you,
If you even care
Because while I've been here,
You've been there
And there is a reason
For all this pain
All this sadness
And without any gain
Because I want you
Whatever you are
I'm longing for something
I will only find afar

Because I need you
Whoever you are
And I hope you're okay
Not wrecked in a bar
I’m in so much pain right now,
God I feel so drained right now,
I do not know my name right now,
I should have been well-trained by now.
He asked me what is wrong with me, and this was my reply.
“It takes me weeks to finish an assignment, and I do not know why.”
I do not understand why all I seem to know how to do is cry,
I don’t even know why all I have the energy to do is think about how to die.
I don’t understand the way to love, like all those cool kids might,
And I do not have a plan for who I want to lay here by my side.
In a bed I’m trapped and in a bed I’ll forever be forced to reside
For walking tires me and I seem to have lost my confident stride.
You looked a little mad  when you asked me why I cried,
And all I said was, “You know what? I don’t even know why.”
I don’t have an answer to why I so badly want to die.
Because my life is good, this is something I cannot deny.
In school I am happy, I’m just a little shy,
But if you were me, wouldn’t you go about life with a sigh?
My life is average, I’ve barely suffered enough to earn the right to cry,
So all that’s left for me to do is ask the world “Why?”
I have lost all my young confidence, I’m not even close to being spry,
My mother said shut up, and I so sadly did comply.
My room has turned into a sort of depressing pigsty,
With monsters in the corner judging me, saying I’m the bad guy.
With mine a broken wing, I am a butterfly,
Unable to go about life without rules to abide by
Rules that tell me how high I’m allowed to fly,
Or what predators to avoid, they see me as a bull’s eye
So I am sorry if I have no answer as to why,
For I have no reason for you, I only have a lie.
“I am fine.”
I asked my mom to teach me how to play piano.

She’s a prodigy, you know. She could play Beethoven better than the man himself.

She said, “I just took my medicine. As soon as it kicks in, I will come down.” She smiled, and I said okay and went downstairs to wait silently.

2 years later, I’m still waiting, I’m still laying down in my bed, because my mother should be down here soon. My room is messy, but I doubt she’ll be around to care. My blankets are warm, and even if she were to come down I would no longer feel like playing the piano. It is such a pretty instrument, and I do not have any pretty notes to play. How am I supposed to learn without a mother to teach me where to put my hands?

For no reason at all, I feel empty and alone. And I called my mom, but she didn’t pick up, and I called my dad, but he is too sick to spend time with me. I grew up around annoyed friends who were bothered by my clingy and annoying personality. For no reason at all, I grew up loud in class. My teachers and peers all roll their eyes, frustrated. It hurts when they call me annoying, but I play it off as a joke. And it’s funny, it is, but I keep forgetting to tell the punchline.

My mother doesn’t reply to the playful text messages I send her when I’m feeling happy, which is okay. That’s okay. Really, it’s fine. I’ll move on, I will. Which is why I know I shouldn’t be crying while I write about feeling confined to a bedroom that I could easily walk out of, and I would if there was a reason to. But there isn’t.

I thought about this today when I wondered how much I see my mother on a day-to-day basis. The answer I came up with once a day, when she walks through the door. She says hello to her boyfriend, Cameron, and she goes to her room. And I don’t see her for the rest of the day. I’ve no one to help me with my homework, so if I don’t understand it I just take the F and move on. My mom will be disappointed in my grades, but she won’t say anything to me. She’ll just glare at me as she passes by. My mom just… doesn’t talk to me.

Which would be fine, if it didn’t cause me to grow up an attention-seeker with attachment and abandonment issues… I lose more friends that way. I don’t have anyone anymore. I scared all my friends off, and it’s not like my mom is around to help me.
I am still so very excited to go to my manipulative father’s house, only because his lies require him to talk to me more. His apologies require him to spend more time with me.
The importance of an adult figure is commonly disregarded, and it is that neglect that has caused me to feel this empty and alone. Because I am constantly left alone with my very talkative mind, and the thoughts always make me question whether or not I am truly loved.

Am I?

Who knows. I’d ask my mom, but…
I doubt she’d reply.
“Up, down…” She held her pen and moved her pen up and down right in front of my face. The point was to follow it with my eyes, similar to the way a lion would look at a zebra before pouncing. That pen angered me, so did the old lady’s bobbed black hair. Or the way her neck drooped practically to the floor. What’s the point of me looking at her leopard-print glasses? What’s the point of this pen? What’s this going to help?

“Okay,” she muttered, “That’s worrying…” I zoned out again. Crap. She held it back up again. This time, she moved it side to side. I followed it as best I could. My stomach stings. I haven’t eaten since lunch 3 days ago. She brought a big box of fruit snacks today. On the box it says, “Party Sized!!!” With 3 exclamation points, even though it wasn’t all that exciting. It was just me eating this “party sized” box of 40 fruit packets. She sighed and put the pen on the chocolate-stained desk. Did I do that? I should probably clean up better next time. Ugh, I hate this room. It smelled of old ketchup and perfume… Was that just her? She started talking to me. There is no window in this room. I cannot see the outside, which makes me anxious. But I won’t tell her that, because if I keep getting anxious over such small things, I’m going to be confined to this isolated room much longer than I have to.

“So, I’m going to put Zoloft on…” I don’t care what she’s about to diagnose me with. It doesn’t matter. “Ava?” I feel tired and my chest feels heavy. It’s MDD, dysthymia, PTSD, anxiety, the list goes on. I wish she didn’t keep piling meds on top of my regular diet of 2 potato crisps a day. “Earth to Ava?” God, I hate that name. It sounds sour on the tongue. Ava, Ava, blah blah blah. I hate it almost as much as I hate silver cars, and red trucks… And the smell of pancakes, which is weird because pancakes are my favorite breakfast food. Who ever heard of hating the smell of your favorite food? “Ava!!”

Oops. “Yeah?”

“What do you think?”

Crap. “About what?”

“Have you even been listening?”

I haven’t. “Of course.”

She starts to lecture me. How annoying. I scream at her to shut up, but only in my head. Lots of things go on in my head. I have learned to mostly ignore them… They talk too much. “Quiet,” I hissed at them (in my head), “I’m trying to work!!” All those missing assignments, all their doing. Nothing bad is my fault, right? Always blame it on my head. I could never express my feelings out loud. But I could put on a real good fake smile. She goes on and on about “not being able to help me if I don’t help myself.” So what? How is telling me what’s going on in my brain even helping me?

I hate therapy, I hate being tired…
I hate it here.
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