Saturday, November 12, 2011


This isn't happening to me.

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.

I don't exist.

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.

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