I was Thirteen and it was Real.

They spoke as if I wasn't in the classroom laboratory with them. I felt my cheeks flush pink with anger and embarrassment. My fingers started to become clumsy as my eyes swelled with tears. I kept my head down so they wouldn't see. Their words were like hot irons, prodding exactly where it would hurt the most. It made me sick. I stood up, with a goal in mind. I turned to both of them and parted my lips to say something. The words escaped me. I stood there with my mouth gaping open, forgetting how to speak. I turned on my heal, walked past my teacher and grabbed my black and white backpack as I uttered under my breath, "I'm going to the bathroom." 

I couldn't even begin to imagine what they whispered as I ran out of the class. I had it coming to me. It was my fault. It was always my fault. I pushed open the bathroom door as I yanked out my phone to text the best friend I had never met. 
"My friends hate me. I hate me." 

I stood in front of the sink, bracing myself as if I could fall over at any minute. The droplets of mascara stained the porcelain white sink. I hated myself for crying. I looked up into the distorted reflection that sat above the sink. How could they call that a mirror? I could hardly see my reflection. Frustration with the school swelled up in my chest as a kid walked into the bathroom. I gave them a heavy blink and walked into one of the stalls. I slammed it shut and threw my backpack to the floor. 

I stood in the stall with my back to the door for five minutes after the kid left. I gritted my teeth together and screamed inside my head. I clenched my eyes shut and slowly sank to the dirty bathroom tile. I shook my head with disgust. Disgust with myself. Disgust with her and him. My hand balled into a fist as I pounded on the tile. 
"Why does no one care?" I called out to anyone that was listening. 

I tore open my backpack and found the stupid pouch my mom gave me for my girl stuff. I dug through about a dozen tampons before I found my only loyal friend. 

My phone buzzed.
"I don't hate you. I liek you. Things will be okay." 

Too little.
Too late.

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie

You're on my brain.

I cannot tell you why I connect every experience with a collection of words. I just know that I try to make something beautiful out of even the most horrible things.

It's a peculiar thing, how a cluster of lines and predetermined sounds can create something that holds the power of either life or death.

They can create wars. They can end wars.
They can make peace. They can end peace.
They can express love. They can express hate.
They can end friendships. They can create friendships.

The possibilities are endless.

Would you just trust me?

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie