riv monroe | district 7 | cb

Oh, the bitter taste of swallowed secrets. I don't know when I became accustomed, much less when I began to crave it. There's silver spoons and there's whatever I had, inheriting a closet full of skeletons and my mother's eyes. Couldn't tell you which is worse. Happy-go-lucky without the happy, smiling through a mouthful of teeth that taste like chalk. Perfection is an understatement, I'm meant for greater things.

There's a flask under my pillow and a mirror in the bathroom that's seen more than it should. Wipe away the blood and bile before they stain and it's like they were never there in the first place. I'm stitched together, coming apart at the seams. Laughter is light but my shoulders stay heavy. I can't remember the last time I met someone's eyes without feeling fucking guilty.

You learn to love your replacements. To be happy when Dad's eyes light up in a way they never do when he's looking at you. He's trying so fucking hard for them when we're right here. I swallow sobs that sound like laughter and hope they can't tell the difference, they don't care enough to.

I've got my brother, that's it. Oldest and I've always had to be strongest. A house of cards about to cave in, but it can't. I'm not allowed the pleasure. I'm beautiful, only because I have no other choice.

They'll never forget the way I crash and burn.