April 11, 2014

I am the daughter, the second in line, waiting for the utmost time. Daddy’s been happy, Mommy’s been mad. While they’ve been distracted, I’ve gotten bad. Scars on my hips and gloss on my lips, smoke in my lungs and screams on my tongue. Depression is my roommate, dormant since I’ve been eight. The emptiness aches; it roars, and I quake. My mind creaks and creeps and crawls, I have no idea what to do with it all. Blackness creeps in and that’s when it ends, “Death, my old friend! Back again?”