I witnessed a suicide of character.
My own.
I watched as the quiet girl with the bad hair, in the back of the class, who enjoyed keeping to herself and the library, grow defensive of her own self image.
I watched as the quiet girl turned into the mean girl,
as people gave her one reason after another to despise them.
I watched the mean girl become the lonely girl,
much like growing old, or tired.
I watched the lonely girl become weak because,
some things you exercise get sick, not stronger.
I watched while the circles below my eyes darkened.
Cuts on my arms dried, peeled, and repeated.
The words that escaped my lips lessened.
My existence became quiet.
Quiet like the tiny voice in your head,
in the background,
when you try to focus on living
and it tells you,
\"it\'s pointless\"
and you tell it...
you tell yourself...
FUCK OFF.
And when its finally too much
you-I slept.
Sleep; the closest thing to death,
when you\'re too weak to kill yourself for real.
As your friends watch as you conk out:
on the bus to school, in every class except the two you like, on the bus ride home,
and then you\'re home alone again...and what do you-I do?
Sleep
Sleep; the closest thing to death.
Yet, still your nightmarish realities are inescapable.
Strength is not obtained it is built, like a sloppy joe, or a wet sand castle.
Strength is slow, and painful, and rarely constructed with help unless it\'s asked for, but that never happened, because your-my cries were silent.
Strong, but often lonely.
Strong, often lonely, I survived.
Strong, maybe not always lonely, I conquered, I am alive.