Tribute

From six feet under, I want to thank my true friends that stuck by me through everything.

When I was 6, I was told I had cooties. I didn't take it well. But it was when I met my first true friend. We met in my mom's dresser. The drawer to be exact. I remember my hands shivering as I reached out to the pair of scissors, and when I found them, I thought it was the most dangerous thing I'd ever do. I could barely keep a grip on the scissors as I cut through my hair. I was wrong. I did things a bit more dangerous.

I was 12 when I looked for the scissors again. This time, I wasn't as careful with them. I was young. But not too young to know better. The scissors kissed my wrists. My first, real, emotion-filled kiss. It doesn't work anymore. It's like I had the kiss, but I want sex. Plus, sleeveless Gucci dresses and slit wrists don't mix well.

When I was 15, I met my fair share of good friends. Some of their names were Vodka, Tequila and Jack D. They helped me forget. They whispered stuff to me, sung me lullaby's, and I'd fall asleep right away. I liked that. Falling asleep to the lullaby's of alcohol. But it's not working anymore, either.

At 17, pills did me good. They sung me a lullaby too, but it was a deadly one. One that seemed to come with a pinch of poison, because my stomach didn't seem to enjoy it at all, and my mind didn't want to wake up. Pills and I had a one night stand. I never got in touch again.

I'm 20 now. And all my friends are gone. My scissors, my alcohol, and my pills. I'm all alone, once again, in search of acceptance. I find it in a match. I light my curtain, and I find in the flames something I've never found before –- warmth.

From six feet under, I'd like to thank my best friends, for making me the person I am not today.