I'm not here.
I'm still at home, with her. I'm still sad, but not like this.
I'm still stuck in my own personal hell; that white house.
It's another aimless Saturday. Mother has nothing better to do, we have nothing better to do.
I had no friends. I have no friends.
She's yelling again.
She won't stop yelling again.
Stop, mom, please.
Stop calling me names, stop scratching me, stop pulling my hair.
What would you do if I was dying, mother?
I want to get out, out, away, away.
At least she had a loving mother watching over her as she went into the gate, right?
At least she had that much.
I wasn't there, and I won't ever be.
And sometimes I think I'm not either
so what do i do
when every day seems to start and end with you
This isn't happening to me.