This is my fault. Mine. Making her think I’d be here for her.

I suppose I’ll be remembered as dull. Timid. No one ever knew me. People came. They went. I was kind, I think. Not sympathetic, but considerate of others. I always gave up my place in line. I loaned out pencils and paper, or let people take them from me. I never reported a sexual assault.

She’ll go to hell. They all will. If hell will even have them.

I hope they remember the good stuff, when I was a baby, a toddler, when they still had hopes and dreams for their little girl, their miracle child. In truth they were good to me. They were only doing what they knew how to do; what they thought was best.

Flush me down the toilet. Human waste.

She’s still doing it, pushing me into situations I can’t handle, making me cope. She knows I can’t cope.

Oh sure. Because we always talk about deep down stuff.

Girls scare me more than boys. Boys are cruel. Girls are mean.

I won’t be alive so I won’t care who finds me.

His invitation lingers. So does my question. Why me? I don’t know the answer. When I look at myself in the mirror, all I see is a starving, stunted bird who never grew wings and lost all reason to sing.