you are are fifteen but you’d rather be dead, and
you are already halfway there.
you are not a house haunted by a ghost, you are
a ghost haunted by a house.
i do not know your middle name
but i do know you still wake up in a cold sweat
sometimes, thinking about
everything that was taken from you.
the first time you told me it was a
miracle that you were still around, i should have called your
mother or your sister or just called you.
when you spoke of painting death on your skin,
i truly believed there was nothing wrong because
i wanted so badly for nothing to be wrong.
you are fifteen and afraid of men and
afraid of life, and still remember things you don’t want to.
you call yourself filthy and i am still
trying to call you cleansed.
i can’t sleep in my quiet home, knowing that your head is far less so.
i hope your dreams learn to forget and
your heart learns to forgive (but do not forgive him,
i hope your body learns to live without him in it.
i hope we can erase this history of tragedy and
create something better.
sarah kate o. is a fifteen year old poet from north carolina who hates describing herself and rebels against capital letters. she is trying to toss her voice into a world already filled with noise and may have nothing meaningful to say. she has been published in the rising phoenix review, words dance magazine, and persephone’s daughters. she can be found at www.allthesinkingships.tumblr.com.