I keep my head down, my green eyes on the ground, and my crooked nose never displayed for one’s black, porcelain eyes meet to mine. I am aware of the names. They ring in my head like chimes buzzing and buzzing, creating a terrifying throbbing sensation, until... I just can’t breathe. My breath intake decreases and my heart speeds up as though it has an urge to win a race. My palms begin to get sweaty and I know it’s arising. When a tear gracefully drops to the cold, harsh ground, a piece of me is lost. My heart has dispatched from the cells, vessels, and organs that surround it. My eyes change from green to the dark ocean that floods my emotions. It consumes me. I am no longer alive. I am trapped in a grave of antidepressants. I look at the ground pulling me under, crushing me. Death slowly wraps its cold, soulless arms around me and tightens with every pill I take, constricting me from living. Just because you're living, doesn’t mean you’re alive. Just because I don’t look up, don't think I can’t hear it, don’t think that it doesn’t make an impact. I race home with the feeling that life’s skinny, heartless fingers are trying to trip me, every time I have the courage to crawl up to the ledge and pick myself up.

Why run? Why run when I get home and sink into depression. My pillow’s claws suffocate me. Can you really call it a home, when your mother vanished and your father is the holder of all the anguish that gives him the power to leave scars. Not just on my face; on my crumbling heart.

I feel confined in a small bubble, one that every time I hysterically try to escape, the microscopic bubble compacts even more. I have always been advised, “Stand up for what you believe in, even if you are standing alone.” How can I stand up against everyone if I instantly become the subject? I am redundant. I am simply unnoticeable; no one cares if I shed a tear, because to them all I am is...nothing. I am, but the wind, but the small pebble that they occasionally trip over. I have no friends, no family, no one loves me. Yet I am at fault? My scars make me different and my bruises make me unsightly. People peer through their malicious eyes at me like I am some creature they have never come across. Like they assume I put the black eye on my face, like I wanted to have the scars on my wrists. I didn't want this. I do not talk. I do not devote my life to a god. I do not have affection for others because every time I look in my father’s eyes I see the whip. I see the lacking of love and I wonder. “Am I enough?” How can I care if all I feel is numbness?

You can’t feel sadness if you never experience happiness. I haven’t experienced happiness, therefore I am not sad. My heart is not bent it is broken. There is no hope for the organ that has never been whole. I am numb; I am decomposing as a person. My humanity switch is turned off.

If a child has a scratch on their arm, the counselor takes notice. Gives help. Why is it that I am anorexic, beaten, cut into, bullied, drained, empty, and lifeless, yet no one gives help? No one asks if I am okay. Well, you want to know something? I am not okay. I am not good, I am not great, fine, doing well, accomplished; I am barely holding on. My emotions are at the edge of a cliff, with one finger grabbing on. Trying to feel light, but having the agony in my heart, constantly making life seem heavier and heavier, every word whispered in my ear as I walk through the halls loosened my grip even more.

I am an artist. Instead of the clear, white, pure paper most artists use, I use sinful material that has already been drawn on before. Red is the only color I use. I see it slowly run down my face and I embrace it. I am an artist. Yet, no one notices me, no one congratulates me.

God doesn’t even notice me. I cry out for help and he ignores me. I want to believe, but I just can’t. I am but the dirt beneath his holy feet. 201 cuts for the amount of days anyone went without touching me. Even when I get beaten my own father remains; sure he keeps his distance. I must decide whether to take it or just disappear, even from God’s sight.

So may this is the last memory you will have, may all your hearts be destroyed. Let the tears drop from your face so that every time my room catches the corner of your ruined eyes, may your body collapse on the floor and know that I love none of you. Not all scars show, not all wounds heal. My heart is broken, because of the razor sharp words you spout. You drove me insane. You positioned the pills in front of me and forced it down my bleeding neck. You unwillingly shoved the finger down my throat and the blade on my skin. You did it. You murdered me. They told me to kill the monsters, so I loaded the gun and pulled the trigger.


Sincerely,

No one