Daughter of glass
I was not born a monster.
I was born a daughter,
a sister,
a laugh echoing in the kitchen.
But meth does not care for beginnings.
It rewrites them.
The first hit felt like wings—
as if God Himself had touched my veins.
Suddenly I was more,
more awake,
more alive,
more than the small body I had been given.
But what grows wings also forgets
how heavy the ground can be.
Soon, mirrors betrayed me.
My face became a stranger’s—
cheeks hollow,
eyes wild with hunger.
I picked at my skin until it bled,
as if I could scrape away the shame
crawling beneath it.
I stole from the hands that once held me.
I lied to the lips that once prayed for me.
I watched my mother’s tears turn
from rivers into oceans,
and still I chose the pipe.
Glass before blood.
Smoke before love.
When she died,
I was caged—
bars on the windows,
bars in my chest.
Her funeral passed without me,
her grave filled without me,
and the last words she spoke
were locked inside the silence
I will never forgive myself for.
Now the high is gone,
but the sentence remains.
Not the one carved by a judge,
but the one I carry in my marrow:
I traded my mother’s heart
for a flame that burned me hollow.
And every breath I take
is proof that meth does not kill quick—
it kills forever,
slowly,
through the people who loved you
until there is nothing left
but a daughter of glass,
shattered in her own hands.
Copyright © KYLIE Lloyd | Year Posted 2025
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