I saw you lock yourself into the bathroom. I heard your eagerness while trying to unscrew the pill bottles. I heard you hit the floor after you took them.

I was only eight.

I called daddy, but he was hours away. I tried to help you mama. I really did.

I saw you in the stretcher. I watched as they wheeled you into the ambulance from my aunt’s car. I held my brother. He was 4 and had no idea what was going on. I saw you go to the hospital. But instead of coming back home to me, you died.

It’s 10 years later, and living everyday is a fight. I wake up and think of you. I dream of you. I eat thinking about you. Hell, no matter what I do I’m thinking about you.

I could have helped more. Maybe if I wasn’t arguing with you about homework and dishes beforehand you wouldn’t have snapped. Maybe it was my fault.

I just want my mama back. I just need to paint my nails with you, and braid my hair with you, and go to shitty pop concerts with you.

I get so jealous when I see people with moms. Especially happy moms. You never got a chance to be happy, mama. You never got everything you deserved.

Now I lay here, crying and thinking about you. How I wish I could go back and fight for you.

I love you.