.

.

.

(A is for Avalon,
The heaven I beseech.
B
is for Balloons,
To the Creator, they'll reach.
C
is for Cooking,
That your mother taught to you.
D
is for Daffodils,
That died as you held on to.
& finally,
E
is for Ending,
Our happily ever after.
We pray that our end is filled with,
Happy tears and laughter.)

.

.

.

.

I beg my mother for candy canes at Christmas,

and complain when I have to hang them on the tree.

I cry and my mother allows me a treat.

Just one, she says,

To eat.

(Just two, perhaps, Mother?)

.

.

.

My brother is thirteen this week,

and thus, he tells me, far too old to still play with me.

I cry as he tells me,

I can't come to his ice-skating party.

(and my father yells that Brother should love me, no matter how old he gets.)

.

.

.

He loves you, my mother tells me, weakly,

A boy just needs friends (not sisters.)

She whispers to me that I'll never ever be unloved,

(but when she leaves, I'll be by myself in a giant room, in a giant house, and completely alone.)

I cry and scream.

(No one loves me, no one loves me.)

.

.

.

You're a crybaby, my brother snarls,

and an annoying, selfish one at that.

So, instead of bothering him, I sit quietly in my room,

And play pick-up-sticks by myself.

I don't even notice I'm crying.

.

.

.

For my birthday, my mother gives me a bird.

(My brother complains that all he got this year was second-hand rollerblades.)

Mother tells me that I can teach it to sing to me the sweetest lullabies.

And, I think, even my mother is sick of me.

So I cry in my room and the bird nibbles at my ear.

(It's strangely comforting.)

.

.

Birdie sings to me at night,

I don't mind.

Brother screams and yells that, y'know,

He'd like some sleep.

He threaten to cut the bird loose,

And almost-almost makes me cry.

Mother makes him apologize.

(I poke my tongue and tease him,

From behind her back.)

.

.

My father has a temper,

And I'm a little brat.

I throw water on him when he ignores me,

And he yells to threatens to belt—

I hide among the rubble of our backyard,

And cry when I hear him mumble how much he hates me.

God, I'm so scared.

(—that he doesn't love me enough to stay, and not leave me.)

.

.

.

I'm so scared of being alone,

Being left behind.

Stop being so dramatic, my brother groans as I cry on him and,

Try to make him promise he'll never leave.

So I shut my mouth,

And hide until I stop crying.

(My brother mutters under his breath that I'm,

Selfish.

And I know there is nothing worse to be.)

.

.

.

When I start school, my mother cries.

She tells me that everything will be fine, darling.

And I say goodbye.

I don't cry; I won't let myself.

I won't let people here hate me for the reasons my brother does.

.

.

(My mother smiles when I come home and asks how it was.

Fine, I smile.

It wasn't.

A boy threw chewing gum in my hair,

And the girls stole my seat on the tree.

It was fine, I smile.)

.

.

.

I don't cry when my bird dies.

I shrug and say, it was just a bird.

(Although, I was up 'til twelve, crying and writing a eulogy for her in my head,

"Dearest Polly,

You were a great companion, friend

And a better singer".)

.

.

.

I cry in the corner of a friend's birthday party over,

Melted chocolate.

I dig my nails into my forearm just to feel something,

Other than my heart breaking, my skin shaking.

And I feel like everything is wrong,

Broken.

(But it's not like anyone notices, anyway.)

.

.

.

My mother screams at me for stealing my brother toys.

That I'm acting like a child, child.

(I'm still one.)

I tell her I'm sorry, and that they're in closet.

I think I've forgotten how to cry in front of her.

(My prophecy was self-filling.

I'm all alone, on a giant bed, in a giant room,

Listening to my heart beat a drumbeat.)

.

.

(I know that I shouldn't cry.

Only three-year-olds and,

Selfish person,

Cry.)

.

.

.

My cousins play with makeup at midnight (counting down to twilight), while their parents sleep,

And I just watch, quietly.

"Play with us, amour," the younger sings, red lipstick smoothed on her lips,

"We cannot stand to exclude you."

Shake my head, "No, no, no, I'm fine."

I never found much joy with those toys.

.

.

.

.

(Perhaps I was supposed to.

Perhaps such these to help me avoid the unpleasantness of some words on forked tongues,)

.

.

.

.

(When I'm older—)

—Bitchy girls in my class call me a hag.

I call out that they're all hags beneath their masks.

"What," one calls out, "and you're beautiful inside?"

I feel like laughing.

Even I know that counts for nothing.

(I've grown too use to it to cry anymore.)

.

.

.

Of all the lessons learnt,

I remember this the most,

Crying/is/selfish.

Crying/is/selfish.

Crying/is/selfish.

You don't want to be selfish,

Do you?

.

(So I laugh when appropriate,

And keep my place.

Still feel hatred/love/sadness

any/emotion/that/has/possibility/to/hurt/me,

After all, I'm still human,

But never bring it to my face.)

.

.

In the end, I've turned myself into the type that,.

Won't allow themselves to descend into a pitiful state of,

Self indulgent unhappiness.

No.

I won't let myself.

(That, I mutter, would be selfish.

Awfully selfish.

Childishly selfish.

I can't be selfish anymore.)

I don't cry as Pretty Trusted Boy tears me apart.

I scream beneath silent breath.

.

.

(Stop!—

My heart and bones and marrow aren't made to,

Bend that way.

Stop using gravity,

Against me.

This really isn't fair.

Logic/means/nothing/here.

Here, in my head.

Shut up and let me play.

Alice/will/be/home/soon.

Alice/will/be/home/soon.)

.

.

.

I won't let myself be broken,

By the likes of you, pretty you.

Boy with girls on your arms,

With nothing to lose.

(I have everything to lose,

My future, my sanity,

My life.)

.

.

.

"Grow up, girlie.

Life isn't lollipops, butterflies and,

Daisies.

Be real."

Though, at least I'm trying to survive it.

Live my life as,

Happy.

(Even if I deny myself harsh reality.)

And you tell me to be,

Real.

(Real like you,

With sliced up wrists and blood on your beloved mother's floor?

Gore has never been my genre.)

.

.

But wait—

This is why—

Stop!

Stop!

You can't see me,

Cry.

Not now.

Not again.

(Not after I put so much into building myself up, so big and strong

So I don't be this selfish, egocentric child ever, ever again.)

.

.

I can't let you win. I won't let you win.

(You won't make me cry/you won't make me cry/you won't make me cry/you won't make me cry.)

.

.

I refuse,

To be broken by,

You.

.

(Again.)

.

.

I'm meant to be so much stronger now.

(Strong and alone.)

.

.

.

.

There's no one left to beg for candy

Or to cry to about childish things.

.

I'm all alone.

.

I cry.

.

.

.

.

.

(Oh God/Oh God/Oh God

Let me wake up.)

.

.

.


.

.

postscript;

(Moments inbetween status of
Crybaby
,
Were joyous and,
Childish
.
But no one remember these,
Facts.)

.

.

NOTES:

1. - I ask for no criticism on this, please. I don't really like this. It was an attempt to understand a character a little more. She, obviously, was a crybaby when she was younger, grew up colder and didn't know how to cry/be weak/ect. without feeling selfish. Has some stuff from my childhood bundled up in there. She gets older as the poem goes on, in case no one caught that. 'Boy' at the end, isn't the brother, but another character unmentioned 'til the end, but you can think it's the brother.
2. - This was probably only got submited because I like the ''A' is for 'Avalon' poem and a few few, selected parts of the poem.