Am I a good friend?
Am I loved the way I am?
Am I annoying the crowds
With all of my screams and shouts?
Am I truly worth every moment?
Why did they leave me,
And why did I beg to drown
In her ocean-blue eyes?
Why did I deign to drown
In my own blood instead?
Why was I pretending to get
Better when all I really want
In life is to be happy?
When I wanted to die,
Why couldn’t I?
And why did the nurse at the
Hospital look at me like she didn’t
Believe I took all those pills?
Did she think I was lying?
Does she know I wasn’t?
Did I even want to die?
I know the first time I wasn’t
Truly trying, but was that me
Trying to survive?
Did I want to be alive?
And is my suicide a joke
And are my scars the punchline?
Is the mirror the accurate version
Of me; is that really what
I see?
And is my poetry actually good
Or am I just trying to fight the
Flood? Maybe both, but does
That make it any better?
Will it help the stormy weather?
And am I exaggerating things,
Projecting what I wish I could sing?
Is my trauma a habit I have or are
My voice cracks from the crying
I held in?
And did all of those things I told
My therapists really happen?
Do they think I’m exaggerating,
Did they think my dad had that
Innocence inside of him?
Why would he do that to me?
Did he know what he was doing?
Did he really think he was
Being a better parent than his
Were to him?
Were they lying at the second CPS call?
Was my brother just not home;
Did my parents start to fall?
They have their thrones—was it wrong to
Drag them out from beneath them?
Would things have been different if I had
Been a better child,
If I had darker hair,
If I wasn’t fat;
Would my life have been fair?
Tell me, is abuse an act of love?