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