• Music. It was once the one thing that I always turned to when I wanted to get away. My outlet, my escape. Closed off to the whole world with the headphones covering my mind. Blocking out the sound of the stress.

    The constant bicker of the girl and the boy. Back and forth, back and forth. She says this, he said that. They start to fight. Yelling, shouting, and cursing.

    Tears begin to form, feelings start to crumble. The clinching of fists. The girl holds back the tears and breathes heavily. Not wanting to be walked over, she stares intently. Mind racing about what she could do. The contact of the fists to his cheek would easily let the frustration flow from inside to the out. Standing there, staring him down with all her might, she bites her tongue to keep her calm and cool demeanor.

    The cattiness of two girls. Back and forth, back and forth. She said this, she says that. They go at it, verbally attacking each other about this thing or an other. Shouting, cursing, and threatening.

    Feelings are shattered; eyeliner is running down the girls’ cheeks. The shouting of one girl. Yelling to be heard. The quiet girl stares blankly at the cursing one, shocked to hear the lies being told. The clinching of her jaw shows that she is wishing to lash out. Biting her tongue as she listens. Lash after lash of the whip called lies. The thoughts racing through her mind, the things she could do. Pulling at the long dark brown locks of the other. The hard slaps of a hand across a cheek. The small smiles hidden in her eyes as the attacks continue, keeping her true motives hidden.

    The distrust of a beloved parent. Further and further the trust is pushed away from the child’s grasp. Actions seeming so small came with such large consequences. The silent anger boiling the child as it sits locked in their own world, getting lost. Anger, frustration, and disgusted by themselves. The child is screaming inside, wanting for someone to break through. Screaming for someone to push to understand them. Eating away at themselves, the silence they endure. The silence given is then returned when it comes to confrontation. No words pass their lips. No words are exchanged. Nothing happens and this is the effect. The time bomb is ticking away, the fuse is lit. What is there to do now?

    The silent cries of help never reach out to be heard. The tears needed to cry no longer linger in eyes. The frustration and pain is locked away in the little body, sealed in a cast iron box, never to be shown the light of day. The sweet smile shown is nothing but a cover for the pain endured. Silently sitting alone in a world that they go through one day at a time.

    The fighting with oneself. Back and forth, back and forth. I said this, I said that. I fight with myself silently. Cursing, yelling, and shouting in my head.

    No tears come to the surface to be shed, no feeling left to be splintered. The staring off into space as the words come screaming through my head. Beating myself up as the minutes go by. The blank stare showing that I pay no mind to what others say. Nothing can break through to me now. The calm, mellow exterior is what is left for you to see.

    What form of outlet is there left? Music was the only thing keeping this child sane. No form of substance was ever abused; no writing could describe the pain. No dance could be performed with such elegance to bring joy. What is there left? What can be done? Why should it even be tried? Hearing others’ problems, helping with whatever is placed in front of me. Others’ problems I seem to handle than my own. Why do I try so hard to fix others’ lives? What does it do for me?

    So many years I have tried to help others, never really fixing what problems I have. Why do I burden myself with others’ grief? I question as to why I even care. I question if they even take my help. No. They do not. They speak as if I were the greatest mind that has ever tried to help, the greatest friend they could ever ask for. Do they not know what I try to do for them? Do they see why I grow frustrated with them? Do they see why my patience is so thin? It is those who ask and beg and plead for help, knowing damn well they choose to not change. My efforts put to waste as my voice falls on deaf ears.

    Do I not have right to be angry, do I not have reason to be furious? Do you think me mad for the things I’ve kept inside? The frustration, the anger, and the pain. All these feelings locked away when they should be expressed.