Clarice.

One month later my mother calls me up to tell me the girl next door died.
She tells me Clarice finally did it.
She tells me Clarice killed herself.

Only Clarice didn’t kill herself. Clarice was killed by society.
Clarice was killed by her mother who suspected that Clarice was hurting herself and instead of trying to do something about it; she told her beliefs to the guy that lives in the house next door to theirs.
Clarice was killed by her brother who heard her cry in the family bathroom for hours on end, in the middle of the night, but never tried to ask her why.
Clarice was killed by the people gossiping about her, because Clarice always wore long sleeves and that must have made her a cutter.
Clarice was killed by people in the street, just strangers that didn’t say ‘Hi’ back to her when she greeted them as she went for a walk to forget about her messy life for a while.
Clarice was killed by the people leaving comments on her Myspace; telling her she looked so pretty and skinny, with her bones all jutted and angled in nauseating fashion.

I killed Clarice.
I killed Clarice every time I avoided any kind of serious conversation with her.
I killed Clarice when I didn’t hold her as she lay on the floor crying.
I killed Clarice when I fucked her, instead of listening to her.
I killed Clarice because I knew she thought she was selfish when she wasn’t and didn’t tell her the truth.
I killed Clarice because I knew she thought she had to be a size zero to be pretty and I never told her she was pretty the way the was.
I never told her about her only flaws being her oblivion and her bruised wrists and her hollow eyes.
I never stopped her from thinking everything about her was flawed.

Clarice is lying dead on the floor of the family bathroom. The one which she cried in for hours on end at four in the morning.
There is blood leaking from a hole in her head.
Because a bullet broke through her skull and splattered her brains against the bathroom tiles.
Because Clarice couldn’t take the pain anymore and finally took the gun out.

Clarice is lying dead on the floor of the family bathroom, because society pulled the trigger of the gun she was holding against her temple all along.

--

I think of Clarice every single day and I try desperately to not write all my songs about her, but it’s hopeless. Because I became enchanted with her the first time I laid eyes on her.
And I wish I could go back in time and tell Clarice she is pretty and special and worth the world and more.
I want to tell her she is my stars and my sky and I dream of her night and day.
I want to tell her that her skin is creamy white and beautiful, like a models’ skin in a magazine.

But if she would be standing in front of me right now; I would probably pretend I didn’t recognise her and shove past her.

So I write songs. And we play them on our stage almost every other night, my band and I.
And every song about Hope is about Clarice. And every song about Love. Every song about Humanity, every song about Faith, every song about Life and every song about Death.

Because that is what Clarice taught me.