Grace

We all have our dreams.


My mother wishes I play piano at her funeral. She said that that is all she wants. For me to play the piano.


My mother asked me if I loved her today.


She asked me in the most peculiar way. I couldn't place her voice.


She's angry at me, I can tell, she doesn't believe I'm anything more than a stranger.


I don't understand.


I've tried so hard, so hard to do well at school, with music, to clean and smile and be happy. I stopped hurting myself, I learned from my mistakes. I don't know what more she wants.


She asks me what I want from her.


A smile.


She says that when I hug her it isn't sincere.


That they're empty.


I don't see this.


God, I'm trying so hard.


I'm trying hard to have myself a reason to live in this.


When music is taken, and science, and english, and all the rest of school.


When your friends don't understand that some days you just feel that the whole world is enough.


That is enough, enough to have reason.


I have had enough, I have tried so hard.


I wonder if papa knows how hard I've tried.


She doesn't want to live.


She's told me so many times.


It hurts.


Now I know.


We're fighting again.


About things that don't exist.


Imaginary.


There's nothing I can do or say to change things.


There's nothing.


I'm making things worse. I always make things worse.


Why can't God take me?


I pray, dear God, please take me.