I used to play a game
with my brother,
we would pick a person
and give them a (fictional) life.

A young man sits at a dinner table,
a pretty blonde women sits across from him,
and a little girl, maybe four, sits between.
When the little girl laughs,
the blonde smiles,
and the young man watches
and his eyes sparkle.

I decide that his name is Ian
and the pretty blonde woman is named
Chloe
and the little girl is Lily.

Ian and Chloe grew up together,
they were neighbors, and they were friends,
and they were soul-mates.
They fell in love young and had a baby,
Lily, they named her after Chloe’s favorite flower.
Ian worked a good job and he was happy,
Chloe stayed home with Lily and she was happy,
and Lily grew up happy,
and they were the picture perfect family.

This is how the stories went-
Like a fairy tale.
I aged and the innocence was lost.

A young girl, sixteen at the oldest,
lays asleep in class,
her head down on her desk.
her arms show no skin, they are covered by long, thick, sleeves,
even though it is 100 degrees outside.
Her eyes are traced in black to match the paint
that coats her lips.

Her name is Emily.

At night she leaves permanent marks up and down
her arms, because her mother screams
that she is not good enough. That she will never be good enough.
Each night she coats her skin in lasting scars
because her father throws beer cans at her
when she is not working fast enough.
Every night she stares at the bottle of pills hidden under her pillow
wondering if it would be worth it,
to never breath again.

And the game ended.