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Creativity

Before It's Too Late

Creative Writing
June 23, 2109
|
Creativity

“We take life for granted.”

“I wish you were never born

You’re just a waste of money

No one will ever love you”


Those were her last words when I stormed into my room

The thing is, you never know your lasts:

Your last embrace

Your last message

Your last breath


Head turning, looking both ways

My trembling foot kisses the pavement

No school lesson can teach me the sickening sound of a bone crunching

No textbook can properly describe the feeling of three tons of metal embracing my chest

Never have I felt so weightless, yet so chained to the Earth

My body went up with the bottle and down with the beer

Sirens serenading final moments as a chorus of my mom rings in my ears

I’m sorry I was born, but you won’t have to deal with me anymore

Shuffling uncomfortably behind the desk, eyes fixate upon the clock

Hailing myself to the God, dictating my every action and meal

Click! The speaker turns on and we all look up to the ceiling as if God is talking to us

Saugus is on lockdown, there is an active shooter on campus!

It is not God talking to us, only the melancholic voice of the Grim Reaper

Gazing down to my phone, the contact ‘Mom’ glows

Yet, my trembling fingers press the power button watching the name flicker into darkness

Door widens-- oh, it’s the gates of Hell-- and I see my final demise

Since when did bullet holes become more common than potholes?

Now you can use your money for that trip to Europe you always wanted


As if this is some twisted theater rehearsal, I look down upon my checklist

Pulling out the envelope from my jacket like a magician

This is my final disappearing act

I stand upon a chair-- my throne of desolation-- searching for a reason

This decision really hangs me up as I chicken out numerous times

However, I decide to give the people what they want

A last form of amusement and entertainment

The fibers scratch my neck red, slowly taking away my breath

I really am a noose-ance, aren’t I?

You’re right that no one will ever love me, hell, my mom couldn’t


Eulogy in hand, she can’t hold back her tears

Voice hoarse from the incessant sobs, she curses out to the world

Because her precious baby was taken under her protection

Because she’ll never see the type of adult I would come to be

Because I defined her title of “mom”, only to have it ripped away

Finally gaining the courage to speak

She screams into the microphone as the wave of tears overcomes her

I love you

However, I sit in my coffin thinking

Why didn’t you say you loved me, before it was too late?


Submitted through a partnership with a local high school's Literary Magazine (Lit Mag).

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