• The rain bruises my pale cold skin
    As I push my bike towards the endless
    Pit of
    no where.

    Where the hell am I going to go?
    I wish I could call my friends
    Whish that I had

    Wish that the only place
    Left that I had to go
    Didn’t have the only person
    That I

    But I’ve always been a selfish

    Are you one of those people…

    Are you one of those people who always dreams about something better? Wakes up to find the cold dirty street underneath you and the bottle of “a week’s savings” wrapped in a brown paper bag lying next to your head for something maybe a “tad bit” more comfortable than the wet ground?

    Are you one of those people who sits by the sewage drain by the end of the busiest, messed up street of the bad side of Washington? Pulls out the pocket knife your dad gave you when you went to girl’s camp, five years ago. Look and acknowledge the sharpest blade you’ve ever laid your eyes upon. Know that you have the power to kill yourself right there and then. Know that that’s an option.

    Are you one of those people who maybe is super lucky to eat three or four small meals a week? Mostly consisting of something half eaten by fat a** McDonald addicts. And with only eating that little a week, you couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds (and that was last month). Or maybe you can wrap your fingers around your wrist twice, see every bone in your body come out three inches more than you could think possible, or maybe stop to look at yourself in the reflection of a window to look at an AIDs victim.

    No, no…wait. Your one of those people who makes money off of young men, old men, fat men, skinny men, any men. Just for whatever amount of money they have to offer. Sometimes they blow you off, suck you dry and leave you with nothing but another STD.

    Or are you one of those people who have had four children at the age of seventeen? Looked into the eyes of four different beautiful souls? Held a life in your arms that had part of everything you once were deep beyond the blue of its eyes. Think of the innocence of their cry. Feel moments were everything seemed perfect, like you had found a reason to live. Then watch the same beautiful soul, the same innocent life that held part of you in their eyes, die. One by one, cry by cry, soul by soul of innocent lives die in your arms four different times.

    Well… I’m one of those people. I’m a homeless, suicidal, Prostitute, with seven dead children, AIDs and a s**t load of STDs. Yup that’s me.

    I used to be one of those people who went to an LDS church every Sunday. Read versus from the Book of Mormon every night. Have straight A’s in AP calculus. Live in Utah, Colorado. Have a million friends, have half a million people to love. I had pets, a house (a home), until one day I had a child.

    That child should have gave me life, gave me reason, power, love, and strength. That child never gave me any of those things, because that child was the child of the only person who ever really loved me, the only person who I ever really loved in return.

    I know what you’re thinking. Your thinking that I should have loved this baby, saw love in this baby’s eyes, saw happiness and life. But every time I looked into the eyes of this baby, I saw death. I saw the man I loved, the man I killed.

    Every time I looked into this baby’s eyes I saw myself. I saw the person who killed the only reason I ever had to live. I saw the person I loved the most and the person I hated the most, me. This baby, filled with so much innocence, did not deserve to live.

    So every time I sit by that sewage drain, I look at that extremely sharp, shiny, beautiful blade, press it into my skin, watch it bleed slowly, until the blade cuts deep into a vain. Then it bleeds fast. It bleeds so fast, I sit back and watch my blood flow into the sewer, until the bleeding slows and my arm loses its color. I think of my life, nothing there but pain. I think of death, the only thing left to look forward to. But I do not deserve to die. I deserve to suffer.

    So I sit there thinking about the two people I killed. The one person I ever loved. I can remember his face so perfectly, the beautiful deep blue of his eyes, his perfectly sculpted nose, his pouty, yet so manly lips. I can remember it all. I don’t cry about it anymore. I don’t cry about anything anymore. It’s not that there’s nothing left to cry about, it’s just that I only care about one thing, one person… and he’s already dead. I don’t even cry about him anymore, even if I try, I guess I’ve just cried every tear I’ve ever had left in this body. When I think of him, I start off thinking about how beautiful he was, I think about how he held me, how amazing his kisses were, but then I think about that one day, that one day where everything fell apart. Oh, that’s an understatement. I could only wish it “fell” apart.

    I had already dropped out of school, I think I was fifteen, yeah I was fifteen. We were living together and I was already six months pregnant. I had a job. I wish I could tell you that I worked at a fast food restaurant or a clothing store or maybe even that I begged for money on the corner of every street in Utah. But my real job involved stuff more like eight-balls of cocaine, a thousand bags of weed packed under my bed (“our” bed) and people who had none, people who had none and wanted some. Yes, I sold illegal drugs at the age of fifteen. I also wish I could tell you that I only “sold” them but, that would be a lie. I was an addict (again, another understatement) and so was he.

    One night I was riding home on my bike alone after snorting the biggest amount of cocaine I have ever used in my entire life. My nose was burning, I could barely focus, and every drop of rain felt like a ten-pound rock. And every time one of those “ten-pound” rocks hit me, my skin boiled and made me so mad, I could have killed somebody. I didn’t want to go to him right then, I didn’t want him to see me like that… I didn’t want to hurt him. But there was nowhere else left to go.

    It’s kind of like I’m part of the walking dead. I don’t smile, don’t laugh, barely eat and only talk if I absolutely have to. I don’t feel any kind of pain anymore, not even emotionally. But hey that’s what you get for killing the one person you would have died for. Ha ha. Kind of ironic now? Huh? And physically… no matter how hard I press that blade into my skin, no matter how deep the cut, I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. I wish it burned, wish that it stung for hours like it used to.

    I wake up every day, without the slightest bit of change.

    Until one day I made that change for myself.