you stare straight ahead,
eyes swimming like the ocean they were modeled after.
the imperfections in your face were meticulously crafted by an expert artist
in an attempt to make you look more human
when in reality you are a god among men.
the thoughts clamoring for attention in your head
are drowned out by the ringing in your ears
but you smile and nod along to conversation,
as if you are holding on to every last word.
you walk home slowly, forcing yourself to put one foot over the other
sure, everyday, that you're going to open the door and not be able to go on.
at night you lay awake in bed
and listen to the door slamming shut.
poor child, sweet child.
she's only pretending to think you're asleep,
the reality is that she just doesn't really care.
your hands tremble the next morning
on your walk back to school
as you bring the cigarette up to your mouth.
there's nothing poetic in your sadness,
just the void of feeling.
you've stopped studying for your classes,
secretly you were hoping that she'd reprimand you for your failing grades,
desperate for anything to show she still cares.
but instead she takes one uninterested glance and leaves the room
"good. we can't afford to send you to college."
the next day you stop going to classes all together.
the friends you thought you had don't call, don't even seem to notice you're missing.
you've reconciled with this fact when you look yourself in the mirror while you bring your face to the bathroom sink
and inhale sharply.
you have new friends now, and they've shown you a great escape.
yesterday you came home,
pockets full of powder-filled plastic bags,
to find the thing you've been expecting your entire life.
a trail of blood stains the worn-out carpet
and in the middle lies your mother face down.
a gun lies close to her hand,
and you pick it up slowly.
you dial the police
but don't stick around to give the details.
resting the cool metal of the barrel against your temple
you don't look back
5... 4... 3... 2..