(This is a narrative poem where an unborn girl whose *** has been determined and instead of being aborted she is being burned alive. Her mother has been locked in a room which has been set ablaze.)
Late one afternoon,
I lay in my mother's womb.
I could sense her depression,
And knew she was facing oppression.
I heard something smash,
Inside I tasted ash.
I could feel some heat,
But casually mom took a seat.
Very softly she said to the girl inside,
"My dear listen to my story by my side."
She began as quietly as ever,
"I never wanted to live here ,never.
I was married at eighteen and my new family was quite mean.
Slowly,me they started to accept,
But still at night I wept.
I was under pressure,
In my womb I had to bear treasure.
The treasure was to be a boy,
But their hopes I did destroy."
The heat grew intense
And unbearable warmth i could sense.
Though mom didn't stop and said,
"My dear many tears have I shed.
I can't save myself,
Because the exits are no help.
They are locked and,
my hopes are blocked.
I want to save you dear,
But only to my heart you are near.
To life say goodbye
And to heaven say hi.
Your dad didn't want you to live,
And there ain't no good doctors in the village.
So if you die, so do I."
And with that sentence I felt the heat ,
And accepted defeat.

Dear my Bluebird,

Tonight I wrote letters to those who have left me somewhat less than before, and one to another who has helped me put myself back together again.

Tonight I realized that that's okay, because what they took are not things that could not be replaced or renewed or bettered.

I know the subjects of pt. 1 and pt. 3 will upset you. I know you dislike the people they are addressed to. And I do not blame you. There's no reason for you to like them, especially as I have been left in the condition I have been left in.

I also know you will read this in the morning.

But I love you. I hope you know that your kindness and protective nature is something so new and beautiful to me. I hope you know that I appreciate you and everything you are and that you do. I also hope you know that I find you brave and brilliant. Hearing you speak about anything that fascinates you, really, stimulates a part of my heart that has never found so much joy in hearing another human being be.

I might not sleep tonight, but I might not have to. As long as I remember the feeling of your fingers intertwined with mine, some type of peace will be found tonight.

Yours truly,
your Hummingbird

Dear Drift Compatible,

You are my best friend. We do not talk every day, but we do not have to. You are kind, and good, and loving. You are my best friend, and sometimes more like a mom, and I love you for that.

When I was broken up with on your porch and ever so suddenly homeless once more, you let me keep some of my stuff with you while I was in the hospital.

You offered me a place with you wherever you are if I ever need it, and that is the kindest, most beautiful thing someone has ever done for me. If I could compare you to a summer's day, I probably wouldn't. They're humid and gross and sticky, things we hate. Winter wouldn't work either, too cold and your heart is too kind and warm.

Maybe early Fall. We'll look back into it.

Thank you for being the Spock to my Kirk ('cause you make sense and I'm an emotional mess but we're both pretty smart), the Riza Hawkeye to my Roy Mustang without the weird ****** tension, and  the Fireheart to Graystripe because everyone knows you're the logical Fireheart and I'm the poor-decision making Graystripe. You are the Levy to my Lucy ('Cause Fairytail had to be mentioned).

Forever your adopted child,
Who needs glass when we have anime and cats?

Dear Sakura,

You were my oldest and most consistent friend. Remember when I called you  toxic because I cut you out to prevent you from feeling pain when I tried to off myself, because I didn't want you at my funeral?

Remember when I got myself help so that wouldn't happen again and when I got out of the hospital you told me that I only care about myself so we can't be friends?

Part of me wants to tell you to take a nice long look in the mirror.

Part of me understands how you misunderstood what being suicidal does to a person. They cannot care about others as consistently as you need it while they're trying to find consistent hope to keep going.

And another part of me, the most influential part, understands it was necessary.

I cannot chase you, my old friend and my now nothing. I cannot chase someone who never intended on staying around.

I do not wish you harm, or ill will. I wish only the best for you, for your life. I hope you grow up quickly, we both need to. I do not think poorly of you. I am a little confused on your decisions, but I cannot bring myself to truly care. It would be harmful to my well being, and if you still cared, you'd be so proud.

We had a good run. End of freshmen year to this past May. We had a good run, I promise. Just know there had not been a person outside of my brothers and mom, until very recently, that I cared for more than I had ever cared for you.

I am glad you told me off after I got out of the hospital. It was my not wanting to hurt you again that lead me to get the help I needed. Though it stings to know you probably think poorly of me, I cannot let myself care. The closest thing I had to a sister, and the closest thing I had to someone that could understand without words (though I was wrong, you obviously needed some words from me to explain), is gone.

And rest assured, I am okay with this. We had a good run, as I said, but that was the last one. As much as I loved you and our friendship, I don't see any type of friendship for us in the future. Maybe the bad blood will go away. But I am okay without you, as I am sure you are without me.

Best wishes,
Glass Half Full

Dear My Never,

It can be summed up easily, I never loved you. Every part of us, of you torturing me and my pretending it was all okay and I was just so in love and everything is alright because teenage heartache is beautiful--

It was *******. I hated you. Every second. And then it became some sick type of Stockholm Syndrome, where I felt connected to the peer pressure and the safety of knowing if I was still "under your spell" I could still be allowed to breathe.

Five years. Technically 4.6 years. But still, math aside, I hate you. Five years I wasted my life because peer pressure and societal norms convinced me what you did was normal.

But the indifference I feel towards you rings stronger than anything else I've ever felt. There's just nothing, and sometimes fear of the actions. Strange, but true.

Signed,
Glass half empty.

In this house, ruckus occurred.
the bathroom was filled with tears,
tears from scrapes and cuts and bruises
the kitchen filled with the sound of forks scraping against plates
the bedrooms filled with dog hair
the living room filled with snores from those late nights
the hallway filled with dirt from those muddy days
the bedroom walls filled with posters
the bedroom floors filled with clothes
In this house ruckus occurred
the bathroom was filled with broken glass
the kitchen with cans and jars,
lying still on the floor, covered with dust
the bedrooms remember
the faint memory of boxes and suitcases
the living room filled from the televisions soft glow
a warning broadcasted from above
the hallway filled with clothes pushed to the side
to make room for more
the bedroom walls filled with holes
the bedroom floors filled with blankets and more dust
In this house, ruckus occurred.