A companion of mine once shared a wonderful philosophy with a not-so-little little girl.
It was centered around the number of siblings she had, around the number of scars she had on her face. It was centered around the year she spoke of the cat on the porch. It was centered around the number of things she loved about herself.
If you add two to that number, you find five fingers that can make a fist and hurt the stars out of her head until everything is blue and purple. If you add two, you find one less than the amount of scars that are branded into her hand. Add two and you have one more than the year she lost everything and a boy named Jon that was the only one that rememberd that day.
Add six. Six seconds. Six seconds until she couldn't handle choking. Six seconds and it felt like she had swallowed glass and vodka. Every time she talked -talks- to you, she wants to die. What's six plus three?
Add three. Rocks are left behind, but a pink winter jacket and staples remain.
Add four. She tried to leave. She promises she did. Promises she did. Promised she did.
But you hold it against her. And she regrets -regretted- returning.
Add eight.
No more vodka flavored glass.
Add seven and a half.
Acid in my -in her- throat.
too much vodka and glass.
Add zero.
Add negative number of siblings.
Add negative number of scars she had on her face.
Add negative the year she spoke of the cat on the porch.
Add negative the number of things she loved about herself.
Negative three.
Now what?
