I keep everything bottled up, like the alcohol. I kept bottled up until the perfect occasion. words are like wax, the way they soothe your skin. Just to be ripped off. Beauty hurts, and my brain is like the junk drawr your mom says is pointless. I've got more than one, some have nick nacks. Others have yellowed pages with an 8 year olds signature. 47 questions to a dad she'll never meet. My mom found them and asked if I stll need these. I shrugged it off, but later that day she found me in a pile of trash gripping those wrinkled pages. Because if I let go of the grief who am I? I eat mini kit kats, and get drunk with people I don't know. To pass the time. I watch strangers in the streets, know me more intimstely than I ill ever let a boy. My mom asked me what the matter, the world shook into a great perhaps. I look away, running my finger down the cracks in the pavement. My dad never wanted me. She said, oh please. Huffed away. But what she doesn't understand. Is that she understands perfectly. But selfishly she puts it behind her. Because the men she chose to put in her daughters life, didn't belong there. In this spectrum. And everything was built up on pity & rebellion. Emotionally & physically abused since 02. I crushed that sea shell dad, the one I got from the sea. I guess it got bad connection. Maybe you never could hear from me...