Go to your room and turn up your music. You sit alone and you turn up your music until you can’t hear shit. Your stereo will be on full volume, but you can still hear the sound of their teeth shattering on vodka bottles. You’re going to blame yourself. Don’t. 

When you go to school the next day, someone is going to ask how your mother is doing, tell them she is good, because trust me, they don’t actually care. People are always curious, never caring. 

The boy in your history class smiles at you and asks for your number, give it to him. Do not hesitate to invite him over one day, but make sure to clear the empty beer bottles from the living room table. Put them in your neighbors garbage can, so there’s no chance of him figuring out what happens in your house at night. He’s going to ask you about the scars on your arm, no matter what he says, don’t try to explain to him that sometimes that’s the only thing that keeps you sane. He’ll never understand. 

Your teacher is going to ask about the bruise on your arm, and you’re going to want to cry out that last night your father drunkenly grabbed you out of anger. Don’t even consider it. Tell them you got it playing soccer. It is much simpler this way. Do not try to tell them, “I once downed two bottles of rum simply because I had to get to it before my mother could.” 

You’re going to get invited to a party and you’re going to be offered a shot of whiskey, but you listen to your conscience. Alcoholism runs in the family, but don’t tell them that. 

You’re going to sit alone every Friday night because you have to stay home by yourself to take care of your drunken mother and you’re gonna wanna talk to somebody. That night your mother is going to tell you that you can’t come home if you ever get a tattoo. She’ll say art belongs on walls. Don’t believe her. Because nobody, not even your mother can tell you that you’re not a masterpiece. Remember that boy from your history class? He’s going to tell you you’re sexy and he wants to have you. Don’t listen to him, or your mother. Because you’re not a piece of property for him to own, you’re a masterpiece, remember? 

This weekend you’ll wake up saturday morning to your mother making you breakfast. You’re going to think that she’s doing this to apologize until you see that she has a glass of wine next to your glass of milk. Don’t yell at her. She’ll only yell back. Say you’re not hungry and go back upstairs.

You’re going to be excited to go to school because that means getting away from your family. Even though you enjoy being there, your grades will get lower every day because when away from home, it’s all you can think about. When you get home that day your father will be drunk and he’ll try to talk to you, tell him you have homework. When he grabs your arm to bring you back, pull away, run upstairs, and lock your down. Put on your music because that’s the only escape from your misery. 

You’ll try to go downstairs to get dinner, but your father tells you that you don’t need any more food, you’re already fat. You’ll get in the shower believing it. You’re incapable of looking in the mirror without crying because you’ll see nothing but fat. That night you’re going to get in bed sobbing. You’re going to think about every single word your mother has ever said to you and every single time your father hit you, and you’re going to want to die. Please, don’t.