When I was younger, I felt dead inside.
My heart was breaking, as surely as my mother's was.
Daddy didn't want to stay with us, and it was my fault.
My sister was three.
She can't remember the nights I whisked her away, up in our bunkbeds,
to a far away place where the sad love songs couldn't reach us.
She can't remember the times I held her while she cried.
She can't remember when I sat and watched her, waiting for Mom to get off work.
She can't remember.
I do.
I remember the time I jumped off my bed, hoping to break my neck.
I remember the way Mom's hands wrapped around my throat.
I remember thinking it's all over, and smiling.
I remember sitting on our porch, waiting for Mom to notice that I was there.
I remember the pain on Mom's face when Dad left us all.
I shoved myself into work, into books, into anything that would numb the pain.
Mom says it's because I'm smart.
I say it was enough to push me away from the edge.
Before I knew suicide, I told myself I would not last after I reach 13.
I was eleven when I decided that.
I had a purpose then, to make sure my sister survived.
She did. I have no purpose.
Now you want to know why I write?
After all that, you want to know why?
It's not for the pain, I gave up on that a long time ago.
It's to remember.
I can't be forgotten, I refuse.
I may be numbed, but that would send fire into my heart.
I want to leave my impression on the Earth, something solely mine and mine alone.
And writing's the only thing I can do right.
A/N: Nothing can really say how I feel right now. Issues are happening and I'm back to my depressive state again. Don't expect much from me. Ciao.
