I was Papa’s
Little angel.
I was happy.
I lived in a fantasy world
All controlled by little white lies.
I would cut off beetle’s heads
In the sandbox
And watch them squirm about, mindlessly.
Just as mindless as I was.
I was unaware of anything bad.
Everyone I loved was protected by an angel.
In my mind, nobody could die.
That was a horrid thought.
But everything was “Perfect”.
I thought only boys wore pants
And ate repulsing food, like bologna.
I clothed myself in dresses
And sparkling shoes.
My room was pink from ceiling to carpet
With Barbie decals on my walls.
I wanted to be perfect just like her.
I have been artistic ever since
I can remember.
I still am to this day.

I’m a tad bit different now.
I’ve grown to realize
This world
Is filled with violence.
I’ve held death close to my heart,
Until his very last breath,
I was his little girl.
I knew “perfect”
Was too good to be true.

I wasn’t sure how to deal
Without my sanity,
Without my best friend.

My mother soon left without
A word spoken.
I felt alone.
I pushed away everyone close,
Then she came back.

I was very opinionated,
My way was the only option.
I was stubborn;
Whatever I was told the opposite was done.
No one could convince me
Where I was going,
Hurting myself and others.
Twenty six little red pills
Helped me get a bed in the hospital.
I never did learn my lesson.
I was beyond selfish,
I was… I am a profane, rebellious teenager.


I’m still hurting others.
Myself more than anyone.
I want to go back
To those young days.
I’d live the same fantasy,
Filled with masks to hide
All the terror that is real.
I would still believe in cooties,
And that getting dirty was for boys.
I would still be
Genuinely happy.