You knew you would be the first one.
You just knew.
Maybe papa knows me better, but you know I know the things you know about me.
Can you hear me Mumma?
Can you hear the little voice you once coddled in your womb? Can you hear the
annoying silence, the unbearable restlessness, and the endless pain?
Maybe you can. Maybe you can’t. Maybe you want to, maybe you don’t.
Maybe it’s just easier to pretend that the girl in front of you is fine. Maybe it is easier
to believe there’s a God. Maybe it is easier to rely on him(?).
Mumma, do you remember the time I was so young
(I don’t know how I remember this)
you could hold me in the palm of your hand. I was so tiny you could fit me
in your pocket and pretend (for once) that I was in your control.
That would have been the first, wouldn’t it mumma?
This was the third time I overdosed
This makes me the fifth of the people you know
Ma, my wrists feel stronger now
But they can carry the weight of the blade
Maybe if I try hard enough we can
Pretend I’m just a window,
With a way out
And no way in
Mumma, do you remember the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months years
My pain, too visible to hide
My love – safeguarded for all the wrong men
Mumma, do you remember
My first smile?
The curve of a child who would soon be
Eager to die
Mumma, do you hear me when I say save me
Or is it just me
Talking to the voices in my head
Mumma, what if I told you
That poets and teachers study Kerouac
Just for Ocean to call them douchebags
What if I told you this life
. (this- a blank space)