Dear Ms. _______

Dear Mr. _________

Dear Mrs. _____

Here are all the things I wish I could scream and cry about without anybody believing that I am crazy. 

Do you hear me at night? 

Do you hear the quiet yet vocal shrieks that come from my windpipes under Wisconsinite moonlight?

Do you hear my pleads? 

What soft yet fearful delights. 

The sound of feet plundering on the floor in search for something. 

something more. 

anything to take away the pain that I feel even when there is no reason to feel pain.

I am hurt, 

even by things that are not there. 

I am effected. 

by everything in which surrounds me. 

and I know it's no use, but I could very simply argue this at school.

Even when It is not seen as right. 

Things around me define who I become. 

My parents make up the only person I'll ever be. 

I had no choice in this!

God, Can't you see me? 

Can you see the blood beading up from the cuts?

Can you see the injuries? 

Won't you see the damage, that this life has done to me? 

Do not you see the fire? 

The flame and its smoke? 

Do not you see the asthma in which it evokes? 

I can not breathe in the tangle of black ash. 

I cannot see through this much trash. 

I am stuck here, I am stranded, I have no say, I've been abandoned. 

the cuts on my arms don't go away, certainly, they're here to stay, right?

There isn't a makeup in the world that can make all this right.

there isn't anything to cover the lies. 

I don't want people to know

I don't want people to know

I don't want people to know!

I do not wish for them to see the gashes, I do not wish to steal their eyes. 

I haven't a wish to be the center of attention, just tell me where the truth lies. 

In the cabinet, in the closet, or on the floor?

It doesn't matter how much blood I shed for you. 

You always want more.

No matter how many tears I lose for you, 

you make me cry again. 

No matter the amount of times I said hello, 

you always said adieu.

Tell me, What shall I make of you? 

A supplier of my hurt?  

a lover of my pain?

A Confidant of my fears. 

or just another person, 

Playing me like a game.

all these fucking years,

                                                         Ariah Christman