❝in five years❞

at twelve, 
i suffered from eight grade syndrome,
of "getting your heart broken is pretty"
it really isn't.
at twelve,
you barely know enough of love
but at the first sign of abandonment
it hurt so much you don't know
what you should do about it 

at thirteen, i met you.
you, with a basketball in one hand
and change in the other;
a fence separating us
it was the first we ever touched, 
fingers merely brushing
but it was enough
at thirteen, i watched the stars with you
in an island away from the mainland
i wished that we would always be together
even if we will always 
"just be friends"
at thirteen, i burnt my own skin
with a stick of eraser as if i was
trying to erase all traces of myself
in this world
but it wasn't enough -
i was left with wretched scars across my left arms that
i could not explain with
"my dog bit me"
you see, my parents have never liked dogs.

at fourteen,
we weren't friends anymore
so i drowned myself not in tears
but with a bottle of panadol that i found in the fridge
my parents found it (panadol) hidden under the pillow
where instead of the tooth fairy
was the grim reaper
waiting
to take me away
and instead of dying
i had to face a teary grandmother who loved me a little more than
i could ever recuperate
and parents who were less than understanding
i