Writer. Fighter. Lover. Dreamer. The doctor's say she's generally functional.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

her resume read: I'm still alive

At sixteen years of age, she was told the truth, she was told. That she shouldn't leave. That she couldn't leave, that she mustn't. 

She shouldn't leave because no one would ever love her like that.
No one could ever love her at all. 
No one could love her, no one could be with her, no one would want her and no one, understandably, could possibly put up with her.

That was seven years ago, and every day she believed this a little less.
That was seven years ago and it has been on her struggling mind, in her bitter heart, through her poisoned veins, burned in her fatal stare, every day since.

That bastard, he had no idea. Words to him; life to her. Seven years ago and nothing had changed.

She was still alive, though, and that was more than she'd expected. Disappointing, yes, but expectations had been exceeded and that was all this damn country cared about.

She felt almost patriotic just by being alive.

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