Product of a Broken Childhood

Her parents made it crystal clear from day one
That she couldn’t rely on anyone in this world except herself.
They were not there to hold her hand through the storms of childhood
But instead to yell at her for never being good enough.

One time when she was eleven she made a picture for her father
But he ended up ripping it in half after stepping on one of eight broken beer bottles
While he was stumbling around barefoot in another angry tirade.
That was the same day he broke the dining room window with his left boot
And that was also the first time she saw her mother cry.

When I went over her house, I saw the window and I asked her what happened
She said she didn’t know.
That was the day she told me that she didn’t think doing drugs
Would be all that bad of a decision,
I mean they take you away from reality,
What more could you want?
We were eleven.

Now we’re eighteen and I talked to her for the first time in years.
She told me that she was right,
And drugs really aren’t as bad as people make them out to be
And neither is cutting, for that matter,
Because the best way to feel alive is to find out if you’re actually dead already.

She has a boyfriend who reminds her of who her father should have been,
And he even shares the same flaws.
Once he drank almost an entire bottle of Jack and got so angry she hid in the closet for two hours
But she still loves him
Because he brought her flowers the next day
And besides, he said he was sorry, and bruises fade, don’t they?

She told me she was happy
But I determined from day one of our friendship that her definition of happiness was warped.
She told me not to worry
That she was really doing fine.

I found myself in the same position I was in at age eleven,
Sensing something wasn’t right
But not being able to do anything about it
Because she was “really doing fine”

And I don’t think she realizes how this is eating me alive
Because watching her live her life is like watching someone rot in prison
But for her it’s from the inside out and she can’t even tell.

And what hurts the most is being a bystander in all of this
Because I know that I can’t save her.

Advertisements

About savannahlyn

I write to articulate what my tongue cannot
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Product of a Broken Childhood

  1. Shan Mal says:

    Wow, just wow. I can relate to this 100% from both yours and your friends perspective.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s