In my short 16 years of life I've put myself into some crazy situations.
I've been dragged into twisted moments that should never have come to be.
I can't say how many tears I've cried or the number of hours of sleep lost.
If I told you I wasn't a worrier I would be a liar.
I'd like to call myself a warrior, using words as my weapon of choice.
Fighting down my demons that drag me into these black and blue feelings.
I can't tell you how many hours I spent writing out my honest emotions and occasionally lack thereof.
I learned more than what is within the books in school.
Rejection, rumors, and reliance.
Things life test us over everyday.
I could tell you I'm the average teenager but how true would that be?
My childhood was torn between a bottle of Tylenol, casinos, and selfish highways.
The ICU is a cold place made up of machine and necessary fluids.
Hospitals smell of bleach and stale tears.
Pity from teachers and I just didn't understand.
I soon became everyone else's problem.
Cancer doesn't chose its victims at random.
Picking out the least fortunate in that moment of time.
But funny stories and long walks kept my mind occupied.
She won't make it to Thanksgiving.
Then, as if by miracle, she did.
But rejection is an ugly and unfair thing.
It was around this time I started to realize the power of pencil and paper.
Drawings evolved into poems.
Longer and deeper as my age stepped up the stairs.
There were cuts sprinkled over previously scarred skin.
Concern shown by no one and they gradually became darker.
You can't run from your problems but I tried more often than not.
It was December when I pulled the best and worst stunt of my short life.
It landed me in a hospital but not one familiar to my own memory.
Help is something I've always needed.
Although help is something I very rarely received.
It wasn't long before I gave up once more.
I just can't handle what has been given to me.
If this is what I've come to be what was meant for me?
What is meant for me?
God, what do you want for me?