You wake up and you cry because someone thought it would be funny to let you live still.
You get out of bed but not without early morning thoughts of jumping off a bridge.
You throw on a shirt from the pile off your floor, shorts and black sneakers.
You brace yourself for another day at school.
It will be over soon.
You get drunk two hours before your curfew, just enough time to sober up before you go.
You light cigarette after cigarette in between bottles of beer, a short-lived revelling.
You put away your pack and lighter as you prepare for the bus ride home.
You spray on store-bought cologne all over to hide your sins.
This is my silent rebellion.
You sit through another lecture from your parents about your painfully average grades.
You remember cutting back on sleep just to finish your work for all seven classes.
You think about the lunch breaks you skipped just to go study at the library instead.
You know you lost ten pounds in just three weeks.
But they wouldn’t know that.
You take a look at the faded slashes and cuts, some already healing, others still fresh.
You run your fingers over the lines, tracing their lengths across your wrists and arms.
You reach for your little blade from an old pencil sharpener and draw new lines.
You feel your dog sit beside you.
If I could run away, I’d take you with me.
You plug in your earphones as you cry to Morrissey on a Wednesday night, lying in bed.
You stare at the cracks in the ceiling, numb, unable to sleep for the past three hours.
You contemplate messaging your friend, but you think she’ll just be annoyed.
You flip onto your stomach and scream into your pillow as sleep takes mercy.
Let me not wake up again.
Please.
a Writer has no name 