Walk

A walk up to my room
in the middle of the night.
My body hits the bed.
My hand reaches underneith.
Yes, it's still there.
My friend of dark thoughts.
A little more blood
to stop my brain.
A little more pain
to forget the memories.
A little more music
to pound out
everything else.
A midnight stroll
to the bathroom.
Hands search
for little pills.
Water goes down
my throat.
Nothing more.
Parents wake.
They yell.
I'm late
for school.
No answer.

A walk up to my room.
A mother's scream.
The stench of death
and a bloody note.
A father's eyes
scan a daughter's room,
His eyes go from the bed,
where she lays
to a diary left open .
Nothing more
then a broken family
is all the poor girl left.
Tears down her mother's face,
Thoughts of the father,
and her friend of dark thoughts
are all the things
that showed who she was.

The walk to my room
is a slow funeral march.
The ghost of the past
haunt you.
Don't worry.
I'm better off dead.