You tell me you're going to miss me, but I just wonder why?
I grew up being called so many names.
From family to teachers to classmates to monsters in my dreams.
You spic, you're fat. You're an idiot.
Fuck you.
Every word was ugly.
Had no respect to me.
Now when you leave me, and I say bye.
If you don't come back with out a mutter of I'll miss you, or I just can't.
it's ok. I'm use to heartache.
I have the will to move on.
To push the pain deep into the gaps of my mind.
I love you too.
These words are just words. Nothing more.
It's the feeling that makes them true.
I use to cry, but my father said stopping being a baby.
You're five years old now. You want me to give you a reason to cry?
No dad. I'm ok. Now go to bed.
Great. The place where I relive each moment.
The place where I woke up screaming because at five... I feared death.
I grew up. No longer scared.
My friend told me that the average person lives to seventy.
70 summers, winters, falls, springs.
I responded...so?
Everyone at the table just stared at me.
That one word made them realize what I just said.
It was as if I enlightened them by accident.
The truth is what it is. We can die whenever, so does it matter?
That's why when you say good bye...
I care,
and that's why you say you'll miss me....
I'll all ways think why?
I'm not dead yet.
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