Ten years old,
insomniac,
major depressive,
anxious.

My parents can't deal with me;
My teachers won't put up with it;
My friends think that I am crazy;
My brothers are afraid.

I find a folder in her closet,
red, top shelf,
hidden,
full of papers.

My mother's teenage words
scrawled across pages.
Poems about cars,
being blonde and young.

I go into my own closet.
My eyes are red and swollen
from months
of endless crying.

I begin to write.
I begin to pour out
what it is that I could never
say.

I am alive today.