Lovely Little Dreamer ( Aloe Succotrina )

"Why can't you be normal Emma?!"

I was at the asphalt at the moment you spoke those,
little,
harsh,
roaring words.
Don't blame me for all the years you were asleep,
unseeing,
ignoring,
ignorant sight.
Manic Depression is curable but I will always feel melancholy,
depressed,
suicidal,
bound tight.
Not even steel boned corsets can keep me in my place,
upright,
normal,
happy smiles.
My violin is all that I know but you destroy that,
killed,
cracked,
utterly broken.
Thoughts won't stop thinking there's nothing to stop them,
blockade,
fight,
pull through.
Go ahead and lock my door so I may be in darkness,
shadows,
whispering,
violently so.
Thomas please help me,
he's,
not,
coming back.

"I pay for school and this is how you repay me?"

This wasn't for you you absent minded dimwit of a man,
vulgar,
evil,
no morals.
What did you do when you found the man you trust the most molested your only daughter?

Nothing.

"This violin represents your respect-wait you don't have any!"

Oh me?
I'm just fine,
I'm happy,
I'm normal now,
I'm not bleeding from my wrists,
I'm not biting my hand,
I'm not going mad,
I'm just fine,
I'm happy,
I'm normal now,
I'm not cursing your make believe God,
I'm not pretending I'm sane,
I'm not going mad!
Just drinking tea with some imaginary friends.
Eating the glass cup of sinful sugar.
Drinking the copper blood I may find so pretty.
Breaking every law of science as I strain my eyes.
Loving every moment of my insanity with no key to returning.
Hating you the more I see the broken pieces of carbon fibers.
Loathing you the more I realize you have
killed.
my.
only.
salvation.

"Go to your room, and Emma? Don't kill yourself like last time, okay?"

I still have the bow, I could stick you in the vein if you want.
I still have the bow, I could rip it across my wrists if you want.
I still have the bow, I could set it on fire and watch the house collapse ontop of me if you want.
I still have my body.
Though my soul died the moment you murdered my precious, lovely, musical instrument.
The ONLY thing in the whole fucking world that can help me when-

"Emma everything's going to be alright, just trust me. I love you..."

I am alone.

"Hey... I love you too."

When Thomas isn't allowed in my room like now.
When my blade isn't sitting in my hand like now.
When my pen seems so far away on a scribbled paper like now.
When my suicide note is on the pillow I will drop on like now.
When my blood runs deeper then the lake we never went to like now.
When my love for Thomas isn't as passionate as it is for my violin like now...

"How could you do that to her?! Fuck you!"

Don't make me try to stay-I won't.
Don't make me try to cry-I have.
Don't make me try to scream-I am.
Don't make me try to live-I CANT.

I look to my note and smile contently with what I have written and then I seem to drift off, the blood from my hands shakily holding my wrists as of two moments ago seeping into the paper.

[font=Verdana]Dearest Thomas,

I do apologize for the horrid timing of leaving, saying as I was just begining to open up to the world and announce our love. I do infact love you but alas I must come to this end, that man who calls himself our father who decides it's quite alright to hit his daughter with bats and fists and words, the woman who calls herself our mother who decides it's okay to get mad at me for being a fool, a dark minded fool. You are 19, you can leave, I am 17, I cannot unless in death. You said you'd fight back-why didn't you? When you are not there to help me, I use my violin but now that 'father' has destroyed it while beating me with it, which I am not even mad about the beating part.

I do not care that the body of the instrument hurt me so, I only care that he broke it against my body. Even if I am already dying due to loss of blood from the back of my head and my shoulders I am going to take my life, once more, though better...

Better. Better. Be. Better. Bett. Be.

I awake on my cold floor.
I passed out when I reached the bottom step.
Blood is dried upon my face and hair.
Bruises still throb when I breath.
I haven't written a suicide note.
I haven't cut my wrists.
What a lovely little darkened dream.
A fantasy.

Please make this stop.
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