Two phases of her Life

(Part- I) 

Fading away - (Because she's slowly submitting to the Demons)

At the age of four,

She danced around outside

With the butterflies

In her cinderella dress

That nobody could seem

To get off her –

Singing, laughing, twirling around in the Sun, 

And picking the pinkest flowers

She could find in Dad's garden. 

At six, 

She laid on the bed begging mom

To read one more book 

Before her mom checked for the

Monsters lurking in her closet. 

At eight, 

She fell from her bike

Leaving cuts, scrapes, and gravel so

Sunken into her palms

She thought she'd never healed. 

She cried for hours, 

While telling her mom

She never wanted

To feel pain so bad, 

As her mom wiped her face and promised her that if she ever did, 

She'd be there. 

At ten, 

Mom and dad started sitting farther apart at the table. 

Dinners got shorter. 

Yelling got louder

... She outgrew her dress.

At twelve, 

The color blue and purple 

Was no longer the color of

Flowers she'd pick for her father

And leave in his room to find, 

But the colors her dad left 

On her brother's thighs for her to find..

While holding him tight, 

Telling him that things would get better. 

At thirteen, 

She realized things would not get better. 

The number eighteen was no longer

The number of butterflies that

She counted soaring through the summer air. 

But the number of pills 

She swallowed in a night, 

Hoping, 

Begging to God, or someone, 

Anyone who would listen 

To end her pain.

At fourteen, 

She forced herself to believe 

That a boy's kiss could heal her wounds

That maybe she would finally 

Find love again innocence. 

At fifteen, 

She learned that even a boy's 

Hands could be filled with hate. 

At sixteen, 

She would give one more shot 

To let someone in. 

But, soon she'd learn that

Every touch would take her back

To that night, 

When dad's hand would

Reach for mom

Or when the boy's hand was pressed

Against her skin, as he whispered

In her ear, this was all

She was useful for. 

At seventeen, 

The monsters lurking in her closet

Took shelter in her head. 

Is that all she is useful for? 

And here she is at nineteen, —

(mumbling to herself) 

"Mom, you promised me. 

Where are you? "

So, instead, she sits here 

On the washroom floor, 

Sobbing, 

Hoping, 

Begging to someone, anyone,

To end this pain. 

And maybe at the nineteenth pill

They'll finally listen.

(Part-II)

Slipping away - (Because love tends to slip away)

At the age of four, 

She was shown that

Love was just the same

As the wine bottles 

Mom couldn't get enough of. 

She'd watch her pour and pour 

Reaching her highest highs

In means of no harm just a little fun. 

That's how it always started, 

But when the bottle emptied 

She clung hoping to get the most

Out of the last drop. 

And just like love, 

When the bottle was finished

And thrown aside the luck

Of the addiction was

Filled with hatred.

At twelve, 

She was shown that

Love was just like that country song

That boy down the street

Played for her. 

She'd feel it rush through 

Her soul

And never be able to get enough. 

She couldn't stop

Pushing replay, 

But it got old for him as the

Song kept playing it lost its beat. 

The high notes hit the same way

As every other note did. 

Now every time she hears that song

She's reminded of the pain

It felt to lose.

At seventeen, 

She was shown that

Her Love was just like his

Cigarette ash. 

He held onto his cigarette 

Not because of the way

It felt pressed on his lips

Or the way it could draw

His attention from a crowd. 

He held on because he knew

He had a hold of his cigarette. 

He lit it up and put it out

At his pleasure. 

He could use it whenever 

He wanted the ash, 

Just a product of that cigarette 

That would be swept away.

At twenty, 

She lied down, 

Took off her clothes

Took that last sip from the glass, 

Put out her cigarette, 

Turned on that song, 

And gave herself to a man

Who wanted her for

Everything but her love

Because WHAT IS LOVE anyway...