Let Me Just Run Away

I can't believe suicide is on my fucking mind.
When I was a little girl did I want to slit my wrists?
I think about this all the time.

When the people who made me, held me,
did they think, she's going to be an amazing cutter?
Did they think I would be a ugly thief?
An amazing lier?

my grandmother,
did she look into my green eyes,
and picture me with a razor to my wrist?
With a few lines of blow, just to help me get through the day?

daddy, whoever that be,
do you think about me

When I was five, I played on swings.
Slid down yellow slides.
A bruised knee was my worst worry.

When I turned seven, he crept into my bed.
He put his hands in places a little girl shouldn't be touched.
He told me to keep quiet.
Or there would be much more pain to endure.

"Mommy" my little pink lips said.
"Yes baby girl?''
"He.. He touches me"
*silence erouds from her eyes*
madness washed over her, faster then the speed of light.
this was one fight, i wish my former self,
didn't have to fight.

If I could go back, and change one thing.
I wouldn't tell her.
I would just run away.