sometimes i still have
to take a deep breath
and remind myself
that not everyone will break me
like you did.

i knew it
one day
i will mean
something to you.....

The surprise
As the cake comes toward me.
The amazement
As I gaze at the number.
Sixteen. Sixteen candles.

The embarrassment
As people surround me and sing.
The disappointment
When I make the very same wish
That never comes true.

The wonder
As my mother stares at me
The sadness
As I know I feel
Without my father here.

I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.