mother never loved you, and father never loved you,
he just tried to make you into a toy soldier.
but that's not love, that's cowardice.
so now you drag your concrete shoes against sidewalks, scraping as you go.
and you fill your insides with seawater just to get used to the feeling of it flooding your lungs.
because one day you think you will end up floating face down somewhere.
and you will, if you force my hand. 
i will push your head underwater, and hold it down.
no matter how hard you kick.
or thrash.
or claw at my wrist.

it's difficult to muster any sympathy when you fall into any arms that would keep you from hitting the pavement,
when you only linger on the edges of window frames just to see who would glance up.
but looks can't kill, 
if they could then you'd be sleeping around with a gaping hole burnt into the back of your head.
one step forward, two steps back.
(meoryou?)
when every skirt resembles mother's,
it's no wonder you bury your face into any lap you can get your hands on.
and lacking maternal instinct and paternal interest, i fall by the wayside.
the benchwarmer relegated to the sidelines, 
the understudy waiting in the wings.
wishing for a broken bone for my day in the shade rather than in someone else's shadow.

the real crime of it all is you thinking that we are in any way similar.
the person you see is not who i really am,
because i've mimicked what i thought i could get away with. 
what i thought i had to be to live long enough to see a day where i don't have to play pretend anymore.
you have no idea who i am because you do not even know who you are.
how much of an adult can you really be if you turn every mirror face down?

"sir, you are both ungallant and deficient."
"how am i deficient?"
"you're just a boy."
and i can almost see you from behind the curtains on the other side of the window, peeking in to catch a glimpse of the one joy from which you must be forever barred.

abby,
if you can keep track of them all.