This is the story of Emmy,
skinny little girl lost in the world
at age nine her parents told her
anything she could ever be
would never be good enough
for their memories.
She grew up learning to cling to the nothingness
and make love to the silence
because they were her only companions.
When she was eleven,
she stopped eating,
because the kids at school used to call her
as if her preteen shape was so bloated
it should have been drowned in the sea,
so she held her soul inside her heart
and taught herself how to swallow words
instead of food,
until hospital visits and test tubes
forced her into fighting for a body
she was told was “too ugly”.
Before highschool, a family friend
decided he had the right to take
all innocence she had left,
his hands were large and strong
as they roamed over her body
she suffered that for a year,
because she was too afraid to say
it was wrong.
Sometimes, abuse has less to do with pain
and more to do with loneliness.
And that’s how she knew love to be,
kisses only came after beatings,
she spent her teenage years between guys
who only cared about what was between her thighs
and built herself a guise of “I don’t care”.
She started doing drugs,
not because she wanted to,
but because she wanted to prove she was brave enough,
she wrestled with death every night,
took tidal waves of pills the doctors prescribed
to fix her
when all she wanted was to be loved.
At night, she would write her dreams on the walls,
she’d drop pennies in to her own wishing well,
saving up for the day that promised her a plane ticket
far far away,
and then things would be better.
Now she finds herself two years into a degree
with no clue what she wants to be
other than that she wants to write,
but it seems these days even words don’t sound right.
She lives a life that privileges
substance abuse over sobriety,
she walks in a haze, clouds on her face
her promises to quit
have the same success rate as lottery tickets,
and those that judge her for it
that sometimes being sober
has less to do with the drug,
and more to do with sanity.
And despite her lovers who devote everything to her,
she feels alone,
despite an army of friends who swear they are there,
she never picks up the phone.
Her smile serves as the perfect mask
while her inside still bleed from the past
and it doesn’t matter how many times
someone says “You’re beautiful”,
because she’s heard the opposite a thousand times more.
At night, she looks at herself in the mirror,
some distorted, burnt out image of what she wanted to be
the cast she built around her broken heart
so long ago has since fallen off.
Somewhere along the road of life,
she left her belief in herself behind.
She spends her days sitting on the tracks,
waiting for the train,
not sure if she wants to get on it, or under it,
but all she knows is that she needs to get away.