#experimental piece because i am super depresso ✌️

[krikeymate]

Nobody Cares

Tara writes a poem.

Night is always the hardest. In the darkness, shadows crawl and monsters wake. The past creeps back, claws digging through flesh until it finds bone and burrowing deeper and deeper until it can’t be escaped, can’t be eradicated. Only the sun brings some reprieve, order and convention taking the wheel. Pain falls in line, hidden behind a smile and a laugh. But behind the shine and the light hides a rotting marrow of infection secreted away, waiting for day to fade to slither out once more. Obligations falter and stall, crushed under the extra weight that’s attached itself, a parasite of ones own making, fear and regret, the curse of living with your mistakes. Of cleaning up shattered glass of those who came before. A path paved, but designed to make you bleed. Death has stalked every step, always there, always waiting, for that single slip. Youth lost and wasted in an unwinnable fight. Time an hourglass, flipped and flipped and flipped. Destined only for repetition. Can there be a future for one so damned? A lifetime spans ahead, as long as a piece of string. Endless and smoking, singed and frayed. Running can only ever get you so far. Everyone around you will watch as the fire burns. No hands or help to be found. Sleep, sun, suffer. Rinse, repeat.

“What’s this?”

The words startle Tara, a deep-seated sense of fear striking her. She’d hidden herself away for a reason, she hadn’t wanted to be found, and now, like a rabbit before a fox, she freezes.

Dead meat.

Despite her best efforts, she’s not quick enough, and the hand in her peripheral vision sneaks past her, snatching the notebook from her lap.

“Amber, don’t.”

The girl pays no mind – she never does.

Her eyes instead rove over the page, smirk fading from pleased to displeased, a frown marring her face instead.

Tara hated that look.

It reminded her of her mother.

Something harsh and angry, a promise of rough hands and cutting words.

“It’s just homework,” Tara mutters, words quiet and unsure. She fidgets with her skirt but finds herself unable to look away.

She wants nothing more than to run, she wants nothing more than for her to look at her.

Eventually, Amber scoffs, throwing it back at her.

“What a load of nonsense. Are you trying to fail?”

Oh.

“Poems are supposed to be pretty, not a bunch of words vomited on a page that nobody wants to read. Nobody cares about this shit.”

She hadn’t wanted her to see it, she hadn’t wanted anybody to see it. And yet, Amber’s words sliced right through her ribs all the same. She’d looked into the depths of Tara’s heart, and found it worthless.

She might as well have stabbed her.

Tara licks her lips, mouth suddenly dry.

“Yeah, you’re right. It was stupid. Nobody–”

“Of course I’m right,” Amber cheers, cutting her off, “glad you’ve seen the light.”

The arm she throws over her shoulder feels so heavy, warmth burning beneath the cool shade of the building.

“Now,” Amber continues, “maybe you should write about something actually important. Like your best friend maybe, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Tara whispers, poem clutched to her chest. “Maybe.”