The day is young and I am little,

My little hands aches with pain

Frozen, I hear my heart beat in my ears

My little body shakes, my voice whimpers

I can’t cry, my little hands are paralyzed

Its only Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday

Why do those who drink become ugly, why do those who scream become silent?

Life is already a disappointment.

Hope is only torture.

Sensations writhe within as my heart beat and counts down another minute.

Pain, however dull or excruciating is my only reminder that I am fragile, not strong.