I miss you like a little kid

Fake Fucking Forlorn Fifteen

He didn't understand why he felt like fucking crap.

You'd think he'd get used to it by now, year after year all by himself.

Only the paper mache dolls to keep him company.

He didn't understand why he felt like fucking crap.

It was the same thing every single goddamn day.

(And truth be told to damn the gods above, for he had done nothing but be born to deserve this).

(Maybe that's why he deserved this).

(God forbid his birth).

The candle was a pleasant excruciating comforting horrifying warmth against the skin of his palm.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

No memories. He had forgotten it all.

He didn't remember the way that Floyd used to lick his teeth after eating any sort of fruit.

He couldn't recall the way Spruce had laughed when Clay got his head stuck in the toilet.

He had no memory of Bruce's teasing smiles he let way whenever he had a prank in mind.

No memories. He had forgotten it all.

He just wanted to feel okay again.

He just wanted to feel okay again.

Why didn't they come back?

Why won't they fucking come back?

He didn't know what he did.

He just wanted to feel okay again.

Thirteen. He was thirteen.

Thirteen and happy. Thirteen and calm.

Thirteen when Grandma was snatched.

Thirteen when all hell broke loose.

The trees lost their leaves.

The air lost its warmth.

The world lost its colours.

And he lost his love.

Fourteen. He was fourteen.

Fourteen and scared. Fourteen and depressed.

Fourteen with the weight on his tiny shoulders and a sock in his mouth.

Fourteen the first time he attempted.

Fifteen. He was fifteen.

Fake Fucking Forlorn fifteen.

Fifteen and alone. Fifteen and a ghost.

Fifteen and barely remembered.

This once, he had a cake.

Small and special and his favourite flavour.

One he hadn't tasted in years.

One, Poppy had made for him.

Sweet Poppy.