You yearn for someone to care
about you so much that it hurts,
for someone that listens more
than they give their opinion.

You dream of a boy that is
capable of keeping you together,
even though you know you
are the only one responsible.

You've never known love,
raised by a man that taught
you to fear touch and quick
movement and stale breath.

You've known hatred though,
your mother passed down
self-loathing and you've
become a professional by now.

Is it still possible to turn a
self-loathing person
into a
self-loving person?

You've missed your chance
to get help, and now you
self medicate just to
numb yourself.

But numb is terrible.
You're still alive
when you're numb.

It's 12:01 am and you're crying.
It should be the beginning of a new day,
a fresh start, a blank slate.
But instead you're sitting there
unable to control your breathing,
victim to the way your sobs rock
your body and how your thoughts
invade every safe haven in your mind.
You want so badly to cry out for help,
but you know your voice isn't strong
enough for anyone to hear anymore.
And so you wish for sleep, whether
temporary or permanent, and wait
for the tears to subside so that you
can finally close your eyes.

Arms too thin for her already
frail body, a frame that is so
unbelievably weak, yet still
stronger than her mind.

A couple scratches on her
arms from when her thoughts
took control, a few clumsy
bruises from her parents
when they tried to fix her.

And she still has the crooked
grin, that smirk that just
screams self-confidence.
Or maybe it's simply to distract
anyone from looking at her
eyes, where grief and pain
attempt to hide in between the
shades of brown and green.
Eyes that have seen too much
but don't want anyone to know,
part of a face trying so hard
to be perfect enough for the
people who are so imperfect
themselves.

I haven't prayed since you left us.
I remember the phone call like it
was yesterday, and I still get anxiety
whenever I hear that ringtone or
feel a buzz in my pocket.

"Their car what...? Oh my god.
Crushed? What about them?"

I was so naive.
I remember thinking that someone
had stolen your car, trying to
piece together fragments of a
conversation I relive everyday.

"She's gone. Her and her dad...
and her mom? They're gone."

I was so ******* naive.
My worst thought was that you
had been kidnapped. The fact that
you could be permanently gone
had never crossed my mind.

As I watched my mom cry sitting
in that front seat, I began to do the
same without knowing how truly
agonizing this would be.

"What happened mom?"
"They're gone."
"Gone? Where?"
"No, Annie. They're dead."

My dad's hands tightened on the
wheel, no doubt wishing it was
the neck of a bottle. My brother
gasped next to me then became
very occupied with the wrinkles
on the back of the passenger seat.
Mom turned back around as her
body was overcome by silent tears
at first, then very loud heaves of
grief. But I knew she was grieving
for herself, because the family that
had come to be my own was now
gone and she had to take care of
her own ****** up kid.

I remember one tear falling, from
which eye I don't remember, then
another, as I stared out the car
window. They silently fell until
we arrived at our destination,
which was our last "family" trip.  

I don't remember much except
for how I didn't sleep more than an
hour those couple of days, but instead
tried to find a song that could come close
to what I was feeling.

I haven't found one.

Then the funeral service came and
there were girls sobbing with lines
streaking down their faces who didn't
even know your favorite time of day
or how you winked in between silent
conversations or the way your laugh
rocked your entire body and I sat there
unable to form a single ******* tear.

An emotionless corpse.
Just like you.

Someone told me what the last words
were in the car. I didn't ask, but of course
I found out just the same.

"Hold on..hold on and pray...pray."

I don't pray anymore.