☠ birch oak -- d7 -- wip ☠

HOW COULD I EVER TRY TO GET BETTER? NOBODY EVER LETS ME IN

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B I R C H O A K
DISTRICT7 | SIXTEEN | FEMALE

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No matter what the teachers say, the world is flat.

I know, because I was knocked right over the edge. Desolate, injured, but never to be forgotten. It's lonely, swimming in the darkness of my own despair. To be shunned out by life itself. And there's no one there to help me up, there's no one there who's brave enough to grab my hand. There are too many rumors flying around, bouncing around the for corners of the Earth. All about the monster me. They deflect anyone who might be willing to help. So I'm left here, alone, miserable, accused of so many things that I never did or never meant to do.

And I guess I am a monster. I guess it's because I'm violent. I have a temper. I have a breaking point, and it seems to be easier to reach than anyone else's or maybe there are so many people grabbing at it that it collapses so easily. The kids at school taunt me, and when I move to walk off, they flock to the teachers, so scared to be held responsible for what they have done. And, if we weren't at school, I might have lashed out. If I wouldn't get scolded and beaten, I might have hurt them. I have so many scores to settle, but they're all tattle tales, they're all safe back home with their families. If I need someone, no one is there. I'm alone.

Blood. They say blood is what holds a family together, but it has pulled me apart. It has dyed my thin lips a deep crimson, reminding everyone that I'm dangerous. That I can harm. I've been addicted to it, I've been wanting it I know I shouldn't I know I shouldn't I know I shouldn't. It brings me stomach pains and fevers but I still drink it because I don't want to stop. No, that's a lie, I do want to stop, I just can't. I've never drank human blood; just animal blood. But to everyone else, blood is blood, and they're disgusted with it. So I'm left being hated for something I so, so desperately want to change, but I don't have the power to do so,

My parents have disowned me.

They have rid me of their pockets.

They look at me like I'm a monster. Vicious and inhuman and not capable of feeling empathy.

Maybe because that's what I am. Maybe that's why they don't let me handle sharp things. Maybe that's why my wavy hair stays ragged and long, falling in tangled heaps of brown. Maybe it's because when they look into my burning blue eyes, they see an itch, a temptation. They assume I want to hurt or scream or do whatever psychotic thing they expect me to do, when I really just want love. I want to feel a mother's embrace so tight it might squeeze all the broken things inside back together again. I want to feel a father's kiss on the forehead before tucking me in at night. I want to be right years old again, before the blood and the violence cast me out.  

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