Criterion 2013 by AHS Criterion

The Criterion

Ardsley High School Volume XVIVX

Dear Readers, Every year, we say that we will publish earlier than the year before. Of course, we always end up cramming to finish the magazine just in time for the end of the school year, but that is part of the appeal of working on a literary magazine: the thrilling deadlines, the late days at school, the final triumph. However, this year felt less triumphant than the last. Without Mr. Baird, our former advisor, to share the process and victories with us, we found celebration difficult. Mr. Baird constantly celebrated life through writing. Whether being an inspirational teacher, especially in his creative writing class, or supporting the Criterion’s (often insane) endeavors, or encouraging an individual student’s aspirations, or even writing his own book (Counterfeit Kids: Why They Can’t Think and How to Save Them), he used language and literature to make the lives around him more positive and more meaningful. We will miss him greatly. We dedicate this volume of the Criterion to Mr. Baird and hope that it reminds everyone of the power of writing, the importance of art, and above all, the need to celebrate every moment.

Thank you, Diana Schoder and Mia Monkovic Editors-in-Chief

Staff Editors-in-Chief Diana Schoder Mia Monkovic

Managing Editor Jenna Friedman

Editors

Matt Rabito Jenna Salomon Nimrat Kohli Chinmayi Venkatram Ilana Goldstein Julia Bretts Matt Gross

Art Editor Mariel Fine

Designers

Taylor Margolies Caitlin Smith

Advisor

Ms. Moleski

Special Thanks To Ms. Rosen Ms. Kiesler Dr. Haubner

Colophon

The Criterion is the literary magazine of Ardsley High School in Ardsley, NY. It is published annually on our website, ahscriterion.tumblr.com. This year’s magazine was typeset on a Mac using Indesign CS3 in Calibri.

Mr. Baird

Table of Contents Fiction Letter From the Trenches by Caitlin Smith..................6 A Brief Discourse on Death by Jenna Friedman..........8 Hands by Kelly Goo.....................................................18 The Lighthouse by Raquel Medina.............................27

Nonfiction Brushstrokes: A Memoir by Raquel Medina..........12

Poetry Trying to Describe You to Someone by Matt Rabito...........3 The Gift by Tara Gordon.....................................................4 The Gift by Anonymous......................................................4 The Gift by Anonymous......................................................5 Beauty Parlor by Lisa Gordon.............................................9 The One by Lisa Gordon.....................................................17 When We Have Shuffled Off by Anonymous......................20 Teach Me What Love Is by Tara Gordon.............................21 Something to Wish For by Anonymous..............................23 Unwoven by Diana Schoder................................................28 Leaves Change by Emily Blumenthal..................................29 Mommy Dearest by Anonymous........................................31

Art Sarah Seiler...............................Cover, inside front cover, 18, 22, 26, 30 Joseph Vinluan.........................1 Jackie Gratzon..........................2 Mariel Fine...............................9, 17, 28 Aila Gomi..................................21 Laura Generale.........................10 Felice Segall..............................7, 16, 24 Monica Verdejo-Santiago........20 Jake Hurwitz.............................13 Hayley Hoffman........................8, 14 Taylor Margolies.......................11 Carly Isaacs...............................29

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“Here we go again, I kinda want to be more than friends” – Animal by the Neon Trees Tara Gordon She gave him a frightened smile. He gave her a calming wink. She gave him time to play with. He gave her a solo to catch up to. She gave him trust. He gave her security. She gave him cats. He gave her watery eyes and a runny nose. She gave him goalie padding and a stage to perform on. He gave her home runs and a chemical explosion. She gave him a talent. He gave her a reputation. She gave him hell. He gave her an emotionless vessel. She gave him sweet dreams. He gave her a rude awakening. She gave him an idea. He gave her a plan. She gave him bright, sunny days. He gave her the cool nightlife. She gave him a slap. He gave her a reason. She gave him Broadway and Coldplay. He gave her a top 40. She gave him a fantasy. He gave her a reality check. She gave him Ithaca, New York. He gave her Radnor Township, Pennsylvania. She gave him freedom. He gave a lock with no key. She gave him the need. He gave her the want. She gave him the birds. He gave her the bees. She gave him a memory. He gave her a story.

“Just try to never grow up.” Taylor Swift Anonymous

She gave him life. He gave her sleepless nights and never-ending days. She gave him New York, New York. He gave her a single room. She gave him kisses. He gave her hugs. She gave him encouragement and knowledge. He gave her Crayola drawings and finger paintings. She gave him disappointment for wrongdoings. He gave her time in a corner. She gave him pizza and chocolate milk. He gave her fifteen minutes at the dinner table. She gave him nights devoted to him. He gave her days where he didn’t speak to her once. She gave him closely guarded freedom. He gave her unreturned calls and rolling eyes. She gave him car keys. He gave her recklessness. She gave him a credit card. He gave her the bill. She gave him a SUNY. He gave her debt. She gave him a visit. He gave her months of emptiness. She gave him Tampa Bay, Florida. He gave her grandchildren for the weekend. She gave him worry. He gave her a visit. She gave him one more day. He gave her tears. She gave him love. He gave her back to Dad.

“I wear my scars, they don’t wear me.”—Anonymous inconvenience Anonymous She gave him trust. He gave her lies. She gave him a sign. He gave her shut eyes. She gave him a plea. He gave her closed ears. She gave him a reason. He gave her silence. She gave him a warning. He gave her his back. She gave him tears. He gave her a laugh. She gave him Verona. He gave her Vegas. She gave him her heart, blood fresh on her hands from where she clawed it out of her own chest. He gave it back, shattered, bat still in hand. She gave him a sigh. He gave her the finger. She gave him choice words. He gave her a smack. She gave him defeat. He gave her a smirk. She gave him nothing. He gave her nothing in return. She gave him goodbye. He gave her begging cries. She gave him a chuckle. He gave her a promise and his soul. She gave him both right back, then walked away, suitcase in hand. He gave her broken sobs, as her figure disappeared, leaving the darkness of her past behind.

The Gift 5

Letter From the Trenches Caitlin Smith Dear Mother and Father, 17 December 1916 You may not expect the question I’m about to ask, but I am so bored in these trenches that I am dying for any form of news. How are our grandparents? How’s the town? How is anything? Please send me some news—I would greatly appreciate it. It would cause some relief from these sandy walls encasing me forever. I feel as though I’ll never escape these wet sand walls, known as the trenches, built in great extents. I feel as though I am a mole with a rifle. It’s that new gun they issued us; it looks as though it is from one of those sci-fi books we read. On the topic of moles, these rats are eating our food supply to non-existence. They are not only eating our food, but our cut body parts as well. It’s an endless cycle: the more we stay in these trenches, the easier it becomes for trench foot to spread—our un-drying moldy feet that must be amputated for our health—which these rats eat, making them bigger and harder to kill. As I am writing this letter to you, I feel a fat one sprint over my feet; it’s a comforting thought though: here in my dugout, or room that I share with four other men, we can not hide or cover ourselves enough to escape these discomforts. You don’t have to feel scampering feet, or hear the hungry chewing to know they’re there; you can smell them from a mile away. It’s as though they are cooked mold with the ability to walk. I only now have time to write you since the bombing that has lasted for months has finally seized; maybe it’s because the holiday is coming up. A huge bursting impact of gunpowder moving the dirt to different locations—that is what a bomb is. It is something no one should experience, something that way too many people do. Anyway, I hope you guys get everything you want for the holidays. Did you ever expect your child to be a soldier, an obedient protector of the country? I guess you would have seen me holding books or speaking to potential customers instead of staring at the useless hooks attached to wire overlapping huge sticks spitting up at the sky from its nestled home of piled sandbags, known as barbed wire. These wires are horrific, no protection from these modern day fights, no help from the flying sword. We look as though we are barbarians, not knowing how to fight or defend ourselves in these days. We only get those rare visitors from No Man’s Land, empty deluded space between them and us. The German villains think they are brave enough; think they are smart enough, try to run through the gunpowder polluted covered land to our barbed wire fence, and trap themselves. It is gruesome so see their lifeless bodies hanging without information, without a reason, without death from God’s will. No disease kills them, no hunger diminishes them, just torture of being ostracized by the same age group and gender but different origin. These hanging enemies not only bring equipment like machine guns or gas masks, but lice as well. We see the guns and gas masks as welcome presents from the other side; the machine guns boost our offensives from the barbarous barbed wire to the science mad heroine in the sci-fi novels. We can kill and kill and kill non-stop, greatly detrimental to the other side from these machines. The masks are seen as momentary lapses of peace, protection for their land neighbors, although there is the paradox that they are the ones setting gas bombs. They are the worst things in the world. You can’t hide from the stench, or the lasting fog, or even the deadly chemical mix of the fog. I thought fog was supposed to be relaxing, soft and friendly, but this is the most evil fog I have ever seen, choking the land, the guns, the beds, the rats, the men. You can’t hide if you are unprotected; one whiff is a call to the grave. These gas masks are like God’s angels. They protect us from early demise. These decaying men have one thing on them that won’t die: lice, the thieves of un-itching skin. They wash our uniforms constantly, bathe our hair-infested skin, however redressed and dirty again the itching remains. They are more friendly and consistent than the social talk of the boys around me. Our own friends are not one another; we are so consumed by our selfless misery that we consult the flies that bite out our rations of food, the small portions they can afford for the day. At least the food is getting some use. It is so stale that not even my starving friends and I can stomach it enough to swallow all that is served on our plate. If you guys are not too busy I would truly appreciate some socks, actually more than some. I would love to have quite a bit. Maybe to last me awhile. The mud carpeting our homes soaks into socks our shoes our feet our every body part. You can practically hear the slush of mud as we walk; it’s the repeating sound of how hopeless seeing home again is. I am petrified I will never return to our small abundance, where there is no awful food, horrendous sight, or terrible living conditions. Sincerely, Your Child

A Brief Discourse on Death Jenna Friedman “So what are you going to do?” “A myriad of little things, I suppose. Write some. Read plenty.” “Really? That’s it?” “Well, contrary to popular belief, I would rather spend my death living than dying.” “That makes no sense.” “Sure it does.” “Perhaps you mean ‘life living than death dying?’” “Your alliterations, light as they are, are quite empty.” “Are you sure it’s not in your brain?” “Quite the contrary, my friend. It is all in my brain.” “Allan, you are going nuts.” “The nuts and bolts of humanity are but synapses and shocks.” “How philosophical.” “Death is enlightening. You should try it sometime.” “I’d rather not.” “Well luckily, Stephen, you have no say in the matter.” “Luckily?” “Death humanizes us.” “Love humanizes us.” “They are but one and the same.”

Beauty Parlor Lisa Gordon Curl and blow, curl and blow A snip here and a spray there. Each week they come To be pampered, admired washed and set. A Queen on a swiveling throne. Then they go home to their husbands or cats, Feeling good when they look in the mirror. Even if their whole world is falling apart; Every hair is in place.

Brush Strokes: A Memoir Raquel Elizabeth Medina When I was little, my dad and I used to go on these father daughter trips. He would take me to amusement parks, hiking trails, and museums. Yes, I remember. The museums of natural history, space, and art. I remember looking up at the glossy paintings, outlined with chunky, golden frames and being in awe of how so many brush strokes could create such perfect works of art. A billion brush strokes and a hundred colors to make one final product. And the final product had to be the most important thing, I used to think, because everyone would line up to gaze at it, not talking above a whisper. So I’d walk on the polished marble floors of the art museums, mimicking the adults, hands folded behind my back, slightly leaning in to inspect each final work, nodding my head slowly as if agreeing with the painting on some adult topic, like politics. And then at the end of these father-daughter days, my dad would buy me a slice of pizza and some candy, and we’d drive home where I would promptly take out my sketch book and scribble out my newest Van Gogh or Michelangelo. But the thing that always excited me was that my drawings would always take a twist. More often than not, they’d morph into something that I hadn’t expected to draw. A rose would become a garden, and the garden would have a log cabin behind it, and behind the log cabin there would appear snow-capped mountains, and somewhere in there, I’d add a bunch of fairies. I used to love drawing fairies when I was little. I’d color them in purple because purple is a mysterious color and that’s why I liked it so much. Purple can be a royal robe or an overcast sky or the ocean’s waves at night. It can change to be any mood. It can change just like my drawings used to. Sometimes I’d even draw a picture and forget about it, coming back to it weeks or months later to add on to the background or the people. (Or to add more purple-skinned fairies). But whatever I drew, the paper always changed. I remember hiking up the mountains of Zion in Utah with my dad. I remember looking down and seeing the jagged, pinkish-orange peaks surrounding us. And that’s when it all hit me. The world is art. It’s a canvas. Maybe it’s God’s canvas, and every stroke of His hand can change it. He’s like some great painter in the periwinkle-blue sky. And that’s what captivates us. The constantly changing canvas of the world. It’s not the full grown oak tree that makes us wonder, but its journey from being a seed to a spindly sprout to a mighty, thick-rooted fountain of leaves. It’s the mixing of colors that makes us eagerly look out our windows—the blue sky turning pink then yellow then red and then purple, yes purple. A deep, regal purple, sparkling like some rare jewel as the white stars emerge. And, so, all those years I had been wrong. So wrong. It was not those framed paintings in the museums that pulled in the onlookers with curiosity. It was not the final product that amazed those black-coated, square-framed glasses adults. It was the brush strokes. It was the thrill of knowing that what we were looking at may have changed a billion times before finally being hung up on that white-washed wall. The adults would lean in close not to inspect the painting itself, but to see how many stories the artist had painted while trying to make the perfect picture. They leaned in to see the many journeys the brushes had taken the painter on... just like my stub of a pencil and chewed on crayons had taken me on wild adventures, never revealing to me what to expect to pop out of the paper in the end. It’s the thrill of the brush strokes that keep me going to the museums. It’s the thrill of the brush strokes that give me that never-ending yearning to create art.

The One Lisa Gordon I watched her struggle. She could barely pick up any of the rocks. Eyes down again, more shoveling. Pick up here, drop them there. I watch her….so petite, so beautiful. Her hands should be sewing pretty dresses In a sun-filled parlor. I work my way down the track. “Here, take my shovel, it’s lighter”. “Stop talking, keep working, mach schnell”. I look up to see her graceful, grateful smile. It was then I knew If we ever leave this place, She was the one.

Hands Kelly Goo She stared directly into the blinding white lights as she lay on the bed, strands of her jet black hair plastered onto her face with sweat and tears. No one was there to hold her hand. So she grasped onto the blankets, although nothing in the world could lessen her pain. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t push. Not just yet. Hold on. To what? She listened to what the doctors said, although she wanted it out of her. Now. She screamed through her teeth as another contraction ripped through her body. But she embraced the pain. Felt like she deserved it, even. For rushing into a marriage, for falling in love with a man she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even know, for being blinded. Blinded by a life she knew she wanted, causing her to foolishly convince herself that she was in love with this man thrust upon her by her family and by his. Yes, the perfect marriage. Two smart, good-looking people. The date is set, the preparations have been made. All they forgot was the love, the only thing in this world that can neither be fabricated nor bought. That day was all a blur. All she remembers were the hands. Hands pulling her gown over her head, arranging her hair, applying layer upon layer of makeup to her already flawless face. Her hands shaking as she took tentative steps down the aisle. His hands taking hers as he said his vows, caressing her as they kissed at the altar. Hands clapping, hands wiping away tears. His hands guiding her as they danced, holding her so gently she felt that she could melt away right then and there into infinite contentment, all the while in his hands. His hands. His hand that she felt strike her cheek that last night of their honeymoon, the burn of the slap stinging the side of her face and the burn of the tears stinging her eyes. His hand that slammed the door of their hotel room after he stormed off, just as frustrated as she was. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even remember what the argument was about, but it made her realize exactly the type of person he is. Hot-headed, egotistic, proud beyond comparison. That he will never change, and that she could never love him.

Her hands. Her hand that dropped the pregnancy test on the bathroom floor, marred by that perfect pink cross. Her hands which flew to her mouth in complete shock and terror as she sank to the ground, paralyzed. Her hand that had just finished signing the divorce papers, now caressing her stomach, fearing the fate of her unborn child. There are no secrets. The word spread. A baby boy of the eldest son to carry on the family name. Abortion was not an option. Nor was there any hope that she could raise him as her own. So she kept quiet. Repressed all the fight within her as she lashed against the chains and hands that bound her, because she knew there was nothing she could do. She kept quiet as money was exchanged—didn’t even look at it. Didn’t care. She wanted to be done, escape from this battle she could not win. She was done being carried by the current of generations upon generations of customs and traditions that pulled her and thrashed her around. A current she was powerless to swim against, which only left her with a tiredness she could feel in the marrow of her bones. So she allowed herself to be swept away by these social norms that were abnormal, that allowed for anything to be bought or fabricated: love, family, power. But now, she was done. And she would escape. Put all of this behind her, and finally be free. Except for her baby. Yes, she thought, fresh tears forming in her eyes, she would have to leave him behind. There was no other way. He would have to live with the hands that would mold his life for him as it did hers. He would be carried by the current, help perpetuate the customs and traditions, be forced to buy his own love. I’m sorry. The doctors hold out her son, ask her if she wants to see him. He’s beautiful, they say. She hears his crying and whimpering, and every muscle in her body yearns for her to hold him in her arms, to comfort and soothe him. Her son. Her baby boy. But no, she can’t. She turns her head to the side, closes her eyes, hears his cry grow fainter and fainter as the hands take her son away.

When We Have Shuffled Off This Mortal Coil, That Makes Calamity of so Long Life Anonymous Does it hurt, do you think, to die? Is there pain you’ve never felt: a stabbing or a crushing, or is it a peaceful dri ft aw a y? How does it feel to wither, a daisy in frost, into nothing so that your smile, the air you breath, the words you say don’t exist anymore? Do you know that it’s time to leave? That the party’s over but you want to stay and you’re always with that one person who tells you it’s time to go? How long do you fight until enough is enough and it’s time to give up?

Teach me what love is.

smile on their face. You distort my view on how love can be Tara Gordon true, Hands interlaced with passion filled eyes. but what can I do to stop this all— tell her? Soft fingers match up with rough skin. And watch her heart fall Kisses, each sweeter than the last. on the ground and shatter? A romance right out of the movies. But in the end that will be my head on that But, platter deceitful eyes and hurtful lies ‘cause I’m a heartbroken player that went tell the real story on this ride, of fooling around with other soft hands, friends by day, with a secret to hide. knowing that you’ll never get caught I thought you wouldn’t keep this up for long ‘cause that will ruin your plans cause in your heart you knew this was of playing the same stupid game with wrong, other heartbroken players. but I was mistaken, and I got scared— And when you’re done, you’ll go back to you forgot who she was, and didn’t even the ‘one’ who care— doesn’t know a thing about your so I became quiet, and didn’t make a sound. manipulation No good can come from this if it got of those poor girls around. who think that they’re your world But before I break the bond and watch and your relationship with the ‘one’ had your relationship bust and fizz, I want to thank you swirled For teaching me what love really is. out of place so there’s no better cure than their touch

Something to Wish For Anonymous The cemetery is always quiet and cool in mid-November even during the day. An older woman sits on a gray stone bench in the noiseless mausoleum where sound is almost forbidden. A bouquet of vivid pinks and blues rests at her feet, covering half the faded name. They were very lively for such a desolate place. It would have been his birthday and he would have been eighty-three and he would have said, like he always did, “One year closer to death,” but he would say it with a smile and a laugh because who really thinks they’re dying? Later, she would go home alone and watch a movie alone and eat dinner alone and go to bed all alone, thinking of him, wishing for death, because she hasn’t had anything to live for in almost five years.

The Lighthouse Raquel Medina Duke sat with his back resting against the thick fence, facing the empty, dark lighthouse. He shut his eyes and heard the howls and shouts of all the other prisoners having fun. He felt a tickle on his nose and, when he opened his eyes to make sure it wasn’t a bug, he saw the same pale blue light he’d seen from the lighthouse last night. He broke out into a cold, wild sweat. “No, God! Please! Not again!” he whispered. Duke shut his eyes, covering them with his hands, hoping that, when he re-opened them, the blue light from the old lighthouse’s watchtower would be gone. He peeped through his hands. The light was still there. Tormented, he stood up. The boys were too involved in their game to notice and no police officers were there to see him leave. Derek had been right. They didn’t care. Duke clawed at his palms again, blood spilling from the rips his nails made. He began to trot towards the lighthouse’s direction. The trot turned into a jog and the jog became a heaving sprint. Derek’s mouth had become dry and each breath he took made his tongue feel heavier and heavier. The veins in his eyes were twitching and he could hear his own blood pumping in his ears. He tasted salty blood in his mouth. As he got closer to the lighthouse, he could see the little girl clearly, as he had last night from the barred window. Her white nightgown. Her thin, colorless fingers. That fragile, sly grin on that limp face.... He ran faster. “It’s fake!” he screamed as he ran, tugging his hair. “It’s fake! It’s fake! It’s FAKE!” His heart fluttered in his chest. Duke got to the fence that separated the prison from the lighthouse. Without stopping, he thrust his gigantic body onto it, climbing as fast as he could. For anyone else, that climb would have been excruciating. But Duke climbed halfway in a matter of minutes. As he reached the lining of barbed wire, Duke mindlessly flung his legs over first, the top half of his body getting caught in the sharp barbs, ripping from his Adam’s apple to his belly button. He climbed down part of the fence on the other side, but jumped down halfway, his bloody hands and boots making him slip.

He hit the ground, the bones in both his legs shattering. The flaps of skin that had been torn by the barbs went in all directions, some pieces of skin getting tangled in the fence. Duke let his skin peel off him and kept on going, crawling on the sandy beach towards the lighthouse, leaving a trail of dark blood behind. Duke crawled up the stairs leading to the lighthouse door. It was already open and he wriggled his way in. He looked up the flight of winding stairs that he was determined to climb to reach the watchtower. He placed his slippery hands on the first step, pulling the rest of his body with him. He groped for the next step and the next and the next.... One hundred and fifteen steps.... Duke was exhausted and passing out as he neared the top of the stairs. As he reached the last step, he lay his bloodless head down on the splintery floor, breathing heavily. Through his half-open eyes he saw her. Clara. His little girl that he had murdered. She laughed at him, beckoning for him to get closer...and closer...and closer....that perfect white nightgown, the pale face, the purple feet, the grin...that grin! So peaceful, yet beckoning...calling him nearer! Duke dragged himself towards her. He wanted to touch her. To hug her. To hit her. To kill her again. And again. And again. He reached out a pale hand, trying to grasp her cold hand in his, blue light bathing him as he got nearer to her. Nearer. Trying to grasp for her nightgown. Trying to touch her pale, glowing blue face. Trying to grasp both her shoulders in his hands and shake them....shaking the noose...grasping the noose....closer and closer and closer.

Unwoven Diana Schoder Submerged in the minds, among their realities, Their brushed-aside dreams were pulsing again. Time laughed and left for the shimmering past, Leaving only threads for an unwoven future. Their brushed-aside dreams were pulsing again, Dissolving away into the stars, Leaving only threads for an unwoven future, And their imaginations crafted the rest. Dissolving away into the stars, Time laughed and left for the shimmering past, And their imaginations crafted the rest, Submerged in their minds, among their realities.

Leaves Change by Emily Blumenthal I woke today with this feeling, The world all of a sudden appealing, And a need to make a change. I walked out of the place I reside, Across the street to the other side, And saw the world in a different way. Today is a new day. This life is a new life. This earth has a new ground For us all to walk around. Words unspoken, My heart is open. These leaves may change, But the tree will stay the same. I feel I have a new perception Of love, faith, and human connection. The world awaits. I have nothing to prove. I feel the waves crash to my toes. The rain comes down and hits the tip of my nose. These waters make the flowers bloom. Today is a new day. This life is a new life. This earth has a new ground For us all to walk around. Words unspoken, My heart is open. These leaves may change, But the tree will stay the same. We must see That thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s room to grow, Enlighten us, make us whole. We share more than we know. Today is a new day. This life is a new life. This earth has a new ground For us all to walk around. Words unspoken, My heart now open. These leaves may change, But the tree will stay the same. The tree will stay the same.

Mommny Dearest Anonymous I try not to hate you. I truly do. I try to see your side, to find some reason that validates your coldness. There are mornings when I wake up hating myself, hating you. I think of you still, Mom, when I sit down to eat at that God awful kitchen table on the rare occasions I do eat. Thank you for that. I really appreciate what you have done for me, I really do, all those gifts and things you buy me to replace the fact that you messed up. Making up for the fact that when I told you how they shoved me in the hallway and called me a whale, how they tripped me as I walked to class, head down, and how they all laughed as I fell, how they called me Twinkie from the back of the bus, and how I begged, begged, you to listen while I told you what they did to me, your little girl, your child, and how you told me to get serious, or you’re taking me to a psychiatrist. God forbid you speak to me, you kind woman. How selfish you can be. Just like your parents. I like my self-esteem nice and low. It makes me special, right Mom? I still sob, you know. I sob these heart-curdling cries of the young girl you bruised, then broke with the block of ice you call a heart, you selfish thing, you.

You tell me I’m dramatic, and sometimes I doubt myself. Goddamn you. I go into my closet sometimes, and look at that belt, the worn leather, stretched from the ever growing shape of my body, as I trace the thin, discolored design I created on my own wrist and think of how you sat at that God awful kitchen table, eating your dinner as I contemplated ending it all. It took me a while to realize you’re not worth it. Just because your heart doesn’t beat doesn’t mean mine should stop, too. If you were to read this, you would probably cry. So weak. Just like me. So much like me. Like you made me. I think that makes us a little even. You shattered me, then acted like it was nothing. You don’t get to do that. You are my mother. You are supposed to love me. But you can’t truly love, can you? Not completely, like a parent should. Like how your parents didn’t. Maybe when I’m older, I will get it. But when I’m older, I refuse to play your sick, twisted games. I won’t kick my child when she’s down, already bleeding, you callous woman. I know your philosophy, mother. If it’s not broken, break it. And if it is broken, break it some more. Sometimes when all the pain clears for a while, I laugh. Then I cry. With love, Your Child