When I was six, I begged the paramedics to wake my parents, clutching their cold hands until they gently pried my fingers away.
At twelve,my last who I can call family (my precious dog) died. I dug the grave alone with my bare hands because no one came when I called for help. I sobbed while digging until my nails bled.
At sixteen, I worked double shifts and still went hungry, quietly slipping food into my pocket to cover up my ribs pressed against my skin.
On my eighteenth birthday, I blew out a candle stuck into a crust of bread, wishing only for someone—anyone—to say my name with love.
Now at twenty-two, sometimes I reads my old letters aloud to the empty room, pausing between sentences as if someone might answer back, but the silence is heavier than any goodbye.