twoblueviolets

Eight AM, I wake in my father’s home with my mother in my chest.

The backyard of my childhood home held the old pine trees that had whispered melodies in my ears throughout my sweet infancy. Their wise branches reached out to me with empathetic arms, holding me until I had fallen seamlessly asleep.

Every day I spend 

Afraid  

Of what you might do to me

Every word you say is like a gunshot

To the chest.

There was a vacant bathroom outside the church park. 
I crawl in beat, destitute, feeding off the radiant waves. 
I stare into a warped mirror punched by drunken twilight boys, 

Even your favorite subject can be your hardest.  

Even the "smart ones" will fail. 

Even good grades become futile.  

Even a textbook won't teach you.