Maybe you don't know what you're doing to me, maybe you don't realize because of all the alcohol and drugs and the sensations you get from doing something so wrong- so twisted. Maybe Mom wouldn't care if she knew, maybe you should try while she's home and awake and see if she gives a fuck. Have fun with that, underneath all the cigarette smoke and various powders, she cares you son of a bitch. I have to hope for that because otherwise, guess what? I'm just what all those kids call me at school: Death Girl. Suicide Girl. Slut. Bitch- oh that one, I am- at least, to them I am. I wish I could be to you, but all you'd do is hurt me more. Maybe someday you'll mark me where it's visible, maybe then the teachers will ask me what's wrong. Maybe then the counselors will give a shit. Maybe then the police that pass me while I walk home will slow and stop, or at least wonder what happens in the house of the strange girl in baggy clothes. Maybe... oh, all these maybes. Maybes don't matter in the real world, the only thing that matters there is the certainty's- the knowledge that yes it will happen. That yes I will break free from this prison of pain and despair... of swinging fists and bent knees ready to send a boot flying into my ribs... of pants dropped and clothes ripped off... of my cries and finally my mouth sewn shut by punishments I didn't deserve.
But that one isn't a certainty. I might break free of that, and when I do, you'll be dead and I'll be in jail, but at least I'll be away from this hell. Benatar was right, Hell is for children, I was just lucky enough to be stuck there past childhood.
But that one isn't a certainty. I might break free of that, and when I do, you'll be dead and I'll be in jail, but at least I'll be away from this hell. Benatar was right, Hell is for children, I was just lucky enough to be stuck there past childhood.
