Pages exploit me.
Users will use me.
Sun will watch me until nothing is left,
to watch.
People will ask me, "Why, where do you come from, misfavoured soul?"
I will tell them I come from the sea, where pebbles wash the surface and where glass is made into porcelain rock.
Rock ...
nobody rocks me to sleep, any longer.

I stand at the window.
I watch.
I leave.

Misguide.

A heart so fragile and worn, each piercing jab is like a silent
scream, aching, grasping out for somebody to hold.
Take hold of me.
      And the anger seeps down in through my blemished skin to the veins,
all the way to the filtered heart, where each broken beat is as solitary as the last.
      
      Anxious. Confronted. Alone in the fluctuated dark.

      Yet, you've got to just go with the tide, reach for it and hold on. Maybe then you'll be okay.
Perhaps.
      You're taking things too seriously, but still you can't escape the perils of the continuous back chatter inside your mind.
      They tell you jealousy's perfectly healthy, but in which dimension?
      
      The echoing wail of time lunges at me and I can't push it away.
      Disappearing into a book is the best type of escape for me, but when I open the pages they're soiled and ruined.
     A whisper of a page calls out to me but it always falls down.

      A seeping tunnel of madness is what they tell me I risk falling into, lower and lower until I sift through the sides and vanish into memory.

      Memory. I wonder what that's like?

You've finally got the life you always wanted, but never had.
And now you're apparently happy and I believe you.
Happy, but without us.

We don't mention the times when you were with us any more,
the times when you held our hands, whispered goodnight to us, tucked us in.
The easy times when you laughed at something funny, sitting there in the living room or standing in the kitchen.

We thought you were happy,
but behind the gentle warm smile and pool of blue eyes that reflected our own back at yours,
you were harbouring a secret.
A secret you'd likely held onto for a good, long and 'apparent' 17 years, possibly more.

Who knows.

It's hard to mention you at home now,
because it's always met with a stone cold silence or, even worse,
a harsh, bitter remark, that can render itself so easily from the one man you thought you loved's lips.

But how easy it is to remember.
To remember you before the outbreak of change, of a new life.
Easy to remember you lounging on the armchairs watching television in the evenings,
to hear you talking and laughing on the telephone out in the hallway,
back in those days when landlines were the norm,
as if nothing was wrong,
as if you were happy.

Now, I see you in the brief few minutes of the mornings,
when you drop me off to college.
A snatching of an encounter, and even then it's in secrecy.
But it's nice to have that private time with you;
it's even more special.

Our time.

But I'm really glad you're happy,
and that you're able to live life free.
I'm glad you've got the life you wanted.

Maybe, one day, he will too.