Little Miss Fuck Up
She was crouched down in a dark corner of a closet, pools of tears brimmed her eyes.
Not today, she had fought so hard not to complain, not to point blame.
Yet here she was again, falling.
She couldn’t help but ask herself if it was once again all her fault.
“Little Miss Fuck Up,” she whispered in the dark.
“That’s what they should call me.”
No one step had she taken that month that was not upon broken glass.
Today she bled, and today she stopped to look at the pieces.
Her reflection was one of another creature.
She had not known the face looking back at her with puffy red eyes and alcohol scented breath.
She smiled.
Today was not the day.
Yet here she was again, alone.
The silence echoed off every dark corner in that small closet, questioning her.
When she listened close enough she could make out faint sounds of so called “friends” promising to always be there.
She could see shadows of old relationships with rock foundations crumbling down upon her.
“Little Miss Fuck Up,” she answered no one.
“That’s what they should call me.”
Her life reeked of failure.
She still remembers the first time she welcomed pain.
She still can describe the feel of a razor pushed against her wrist, and the taste of tears sliding down her cheek.
She remembers being berated and belittled.
She shut her eyes in frustration; once again something had been all her fault.
“If only you would have not done this…or that” the voices in her head cooed as they all meshed together.
Not today, today it just can’t be her fault.
Yet there she was yet again, fading.
“I never felt wanted; I just started to want to feel” she murmured in her self -made cocoon.
“Little Miss Fuck Up, that’s what they should call me.”
By Alanna D.
She was crouched down in a dark corner of a closet, pools of tears brimmed her eyes.
Not today, she had fought so hard not to complain, not to point blame.
Yet here she was again, falling.
She couldn’t help but ask herself if it was once again all her fault.
“Little Miss Fuck Up,” she whispered in the dark.
“That’s what they should call me.”
No one step had she taken that month that was not upon broken glass.
Today she bled, and today she stopped to look at the pieces.
Her reflection was one of another creature.
She had not known the face looking back at her with puffy red eyes and alcohol scented breath.
She smiled.
Today was not the day.
Yet here she was again, alone.
The silence echoed off every dark corner in that small closet, questioning her.
When she listened close enough she could make out faint sounds of so called “friends” promising to always be there.
She could see shadows of old relationships with rock foundations crumbling down upon her.
“Little Miss Fuck Up,” she answered no one.
“That’s what they should call me.”
Her life reeked of failure.
She still remembers the first time she welcomed pain.
She still can describe the feel of a razor pushed against her wrist, and the taste of tears sliding down her cheek.
She remembers being berated and belittled.
She shut her eyes in frustration; once again something had been all her fault.
“If only you would have not done this…or that” the voices in her head cooed as they all meshed together.
Not today, today it just can’t be her fault.
Yet there she was yet again, fading.
“I never felt wanted; I just started to want to feel” she murmured in her self -made cocoon.
“Little Miss Fuck Up, that’s what they should call me.”
By Alanna D.
Yes, this is based on...a few personal things. But really other peoples experiences.
Sorry for the sad feel to it.
