Unorganized Answers

Counting up the minutes,
6 hours is close enough to 7,
Close enough to 8.

Counting down the days,
Until I can leave,
Until I can sleep,

Days turn into hours,
Hours into minutes,
Minutes into sand,
That slips through my fingers. 

Tears flow like a well run dry,
Salt decorating my eyelashes,
when will I wake from this dream?

This nightmare of war and hatred,
This nightmare of burning rainbows,
Burning bodies,
Burning bones.

Keep the secrets buried,
Let my ignorance be bliss,
When did I stop being a kid?

Smudged mascara tells the truth
that the whispered voices hide.

More blood lingering on wounds that aren't mine,
Arms that arent mine,
Shoulders that aren't mine.

Since when should a fourteen year old 
be convincing her friends not to die?

Truth is relative,
They say.

Truth,
Is the blood on your sleeve,
The razor in your phone case,
The smiles that fade away to nothing.

The scars trace a beautiful picture,
Like the sun,
I am afraid to look.

Truth,
I say,
Is written in between the lines
Of every history book.
Of every war,
Every battle fought just to lose.

Every meal you skip,
Every line of sharpie you draw,
Every text lighting up my phone,

Truth,
They whisper,
Is fear.