this is the end

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

don’t understand

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.

The End

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