I sit all alone fearing conversation, I know that if I talk the truth will come out, my life isn't good, or great, or even okay, when I go home tired from the day. I go to my room and cry, because I know that all my smiles are fake, and that when my mom comes home I will receive a slap in the face, she want ask how my day was, or ask my if things are okay, she want notice the cuts on wrists where five minutes earlier I made more then one slash, because my mom loves to drink more then loving her own kid