It was time to say goodbye. I didn't want to, I wasn't ready to, I had to let it go and move on, walk away and never look back, I close my eyes and it was just a rash, something that would go away and I would never remember, like the memories of my first word and first step, when I look back I know they happened but I can't remember them, I know they exist but I can't remember when that happened or why, sometimes I can't even remember who I was with, its scary, to not know... I mean to not remember, and it hurts not to know. By the time I was nine I was doing just fine, sippin' on some nice red wine, witch lead to slippn' one or two a night. Blue ones to sleep and red ones to smile, little did I know they wouldn't take a while, in that while I went to work. Slicing and dicing, slashing and splashing the messy work of a butcher. De-skinning my arm, piece by piece, as my artistic came out the red paint ran down my arm into the sink, landing in the same spots as the night before. With my heart aching from the death of my sister, my father was absent and in the absents of my father my mother was drunk. The people at school who I called friends didn't even know of my sisters existence and still don't. They never will, cos I don't want them looking at me like I'm broken, like I can't be fixed. I'm only nine... And now I'm fifty nine days away from being sixteen and the only question on my page that is left unanswered is "what was it like to be nine?"
