What’s the time? 1:51 AM, March 22. Thanks for asking. No, I don’t want any assistance through this very difficult time in my life. I can’t explain it; I don’t even know why I’m trying…
I was ten years old. The year was 1998. My father left late March for Italy. That was the day the world I knew came to a startling end. I won’t go into the details. There isn’t any need for all of that. After all, my head has a crystal clear image of who I was, where I was, and what I longed to be. Now, I cannot leave this state of perplexity. I drift between two worlds. One that I was forced to exist in and the other a world I created to belong in.
I thrive in a place I have yet to show another soul. I tried, when I was younger, to have people understand and see the beauty I created. The cosmos I produced with my mind. I was eleven years of age when I tried so desperately to have someone else take a glimpse of it. I was known for being crazy then. Children would tell their parents of this world I so desperately begged them not to talk about. Soon these Parents, as any good parent would, told these children to stay away from me. I had few friends, but only one I can honestly say mattered. His name was Brandon. He was just as exiled as I was. I dreamt of him last night. He ran away from me. Loneliness stuck me like a lightening bolt.
I was molested at the age of six; with another little girl. Her older brother was the offender. I really can’t say I place much blame on him; he was only twelve years old himself. Maybe my problem is I never want to place liability where it belongs. I don’t know… I never do. I have my theories and my speculations for everything, but in reality, I don’t know much of anything. I have my facts. I was molested. I was a victim. But who was the perpetrator? Can I really point my finger at a twelve year old boy? No one else did. It was swept under the rug along with anything else that was ever wrong with my life. That’s how I learned to cope. I was taught to suppress and forget. Who exactly taught me this? Honestly, I don’t know. It probably was myself.
I’ve had sex with twelve people. Only three of them I hold absolutely no regrets about. Only two of them I had sex with every time soberly. I am a statistic. Excuse me while I regurgitate over what I have become. You see, I am a whore. No, don’t pity me. Don’t act like it’s not true. My past isn’t any justification for my actions. I am a whore. Or I was, until I received a true gift- A Sexually Transmitted Disease. I am not ashamed by what I have; by what I’ve done, by who I am, or who I will grow to be.
This time of year is always the most grueling on me… Since I was ten years old the direst things happen to me in March. I don’t know why, I have my suspicions, but what good do those do? Point is I hate March. April… April is my downfall. April is the month I always try to kill myself. Alright, maybe I should rephrase that. I don’t believe in attempting suicide. I believe if you want to die, you’ll kill yourself. The end. So I guess I should say April is the month that I push my limits. April is the month I chastise myself. I spill my tears, down my liquor, pop my pills, and tear my body to shreds. April is the month I push absolutely everyone away. I don’t need help. I don’t need pity. I don’t need anything.
So excuse me, while this month is closing in on me. Pardon my actions towards others. Forget I exist, because I won’t be alive to anyone who knows me. This will be the time I go to the realm I composed of dreams and desires. A beautiful place, really.
The time is now 2:30 AM, March 22. Thank you for your offers, thank you for your kinds words. But to be frank, that really don’t matter anymore.
Goodbye.
Things have become so dire, yet reliable
And I don’t think I care anymore
I fell apart before your eyes
You didn’t care enough to see. | 
