when i was 8 years old,
i got off the bus.

i got off the bus to two words.
the next 72 hours were spent hiding in a basement.
nothing was coming.
i think, at least...

the whispers in my head told me otherwise though,
so in the basement i stayed.


when i was 10 years old,
the news woman shared stories.

the news woman told me the end was near.
maybe that wasn't her exact words.
i didn't sleep...
just in case.

insomnia became a friend of mine.


when i was twelve years old,
the new year rung in and i was alone.

the house was blanketed in silence,
and i sat on an empty couch,
and everything had seemed so quiet.
a razor blade was my only company.

we became quite close that night.


when i was fourteen years old,
i wandered barren hallways,
adorned with crimson.
they had given me free socks when i'd arrived.

the psych ward was not nearly as loud as the voices in my head.

i am now sixteen years old.
medications flow through my veins,
scars dance up and down my wrists,
and although i am surrounded by people,

i am so alone.


the moral of the story:
tell me when you figure it out,
because trust me, i'm still trying.