Promises Demise

One (class)

I've always had my sleeves down... Not that it mattered, but to some.. It does. My family believes it's unhealthy. That I need to show my skin more. It's what they think though... Not what I think. And being 17, I can make my own decisions. 

My teacher is going on, and I feel the chair at my desk numbing my ass. My blonde hair is down, as usual, and I have another big, brown sweater. It's over my wrists, but I feel like it's still too short. My eyes are blue, like my fathers. And I get the blonde hair from my mother. My desk is creamy and hides my blue jeans... But other people have carved into this desk, leaving it grooved with black lead canyons. 

My teacher was going on about Mitosis and how it works in whatever kind of class this was... And I just stared at the small words written on my desk. 

"Loser's will always lose in life's ultimate trials." Of course, people still wrote on desks in high school... But they also were still inconsiderate. 

This was the last period of the day for me, and I just wanted the day to be over with. I just wanted to go home and sit in the window. I wanted to go home and read my books. Draw. Eat something. Anything but be here. I looked up at the clock- 2:34pm. I still had 36 minutes. I sigh.

Thinking back to my first year in high school, I realize how much my life has changed. I moved away from the people I cared most about, and started going here, all because my father was cheating on my mother with our neighbors wife. Mom, my brother and I moved two towns over after that, and mom just happened to take up drinking habits. So she's always drunk. And when she's not drunk, she's at work getting high. Yes, my mother gets high at work. 

My brother and I though, we had to do the house things, and we had to make dinner. We had to buy the food, and the other things people needed in a house. Clothes, blankets, toilet paper, towels, and other things left unmentioned. But what I always found myself grabbing, was bandaids. Or medical tape with gauze. Not only because I did self harm, but because when I would wear something other than baggy clothes, it wouldn't cover my wrists. 

On them, was nothing special, just something you'd see on anyone who had a suicidal reputation. One scar from me, two from the doctors. It's ironic right? How they had to cut you open to sew you shut? My cuts though, are not on my arm. They stay on my thighs. How's that saying go? "Scars on my hips, scars on my thighs. Eyes full of hurt, and a mouth full of lies." That was me. I had a large mouth full of lies, and not only did my family know it, the kids at school knew it too.

I was bullied because of it, but I could honestly care less. They were stupid. Immature. And they didn't get it. Then again, what muscled up jock or prepy high female ever gave a fuck about the under dogs? Yes, they have manors... To your face anyways. But that was their own stupid little world I never wanted to be part of. No one is that perfect, and I will be the first out of a million to claim it -- I am not perfect, but I am not trying to hide who I am.

Just... What I am. Fantastic, right?

Finally, the bell rings, and I grab my pack from off the floor and move to be out the door first only to head directly to my car, and stick the keys in, start her up, and be on my way home.