The weed that pops through the crack.
The one who never asked for the attention,
that was brought upon her by silence in the chaos.
Decisions she never made and consequences she never asked for.
The feminist.
The anti-hero.
The "overly" woke.
You're too serious.
Too scared.
Too weak.
The one with the tattoos,
and imaginary friends and worlds beyond reality.
Writing isn't a job.
Education is more important.
When will you get a job?
A flower burning over the dying candle,
trying to rebuild her confidence,
to remelt the wax but nurture the roots.
An impossible task,
that creates a mask.
No invitations,
Or outlets.
Or simple "i love yous"
Or "how are yous"
On those sunny days when the world is bleak enough
that blood and pain are the only ways
to feel something,
to feel anything.
To remind yourself you're human.
That you breathe and drink and pay
with the vilest of consequences,
because you're the product of secondhand smoke.
You watch it drip onto the porcelain
while the family takes a break from your
drama.
Pain.
Overreactions.
"Grow up," they say. "It's all over. Get over it."
Their words break you like pressure breaks ice.
There are people you thought were nice.
Instead,
they're backstabbers and liars, illusionists.
You search for the song that will cure you,
the hope that someone will understand
where the withdrawal comes from.
You don't want to be a liability,
and make everyone suffer from your unreliability and inflexibility.
You fear your voice becomes too tiresome to the ear.
It ruins you and all you hear,
are the voices telling you to embrace silence.
Too scared to ask for help.
