the miserable life of a miserable teenager

like pouring the kerosene.

Go for the razor,

like grabbing a match.

Show my pain,

like lighting the match.

And finally, indulge in the madness,

like dropping the match.

Watch my childhood home, burn. Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

With it, all the memories, or as I call them

nightmares.

My brother and his friends never threw a worm in my hair and ran away laughing, while I walked home crying.

I never got in trouble the first day we ever saw the house, for sitting on the patio ledge. Never cried in front of the realtor.

I never cried in my daddy’s arms as I told him I was suicidal, purposely keeping out the reason, and he never let go.

Say goodbye, it’s all in flames.

Not literally,

but as the blood stains my carpet,

I feel farther than that shy little girl,

than her father.