Blood drops would be bread crumbs, and you could call Gretel.

The world says I'm alive. My fragile fleshy organs work constantly. Hiding like cowards inside, doing their predestined jobs. My lungs intake air, and my brain thinks and thinks and over-thinks.
To them that's living.

I go through the motions of my teenage life. I feel a puppet. A stiff marionette, with a fake painted face and strings. Strings like old, rusted barbed wire that they've strung all around me. I go to school. Do my work. Smile. Laugh when expected. Smile.
To them that's a life.

But I'm tired.
I'm tired of pleasing them.
I'm tired of coloring inside of the lines.
I'm tired of handshakes, and formal titles.
I'm tired of being attached to this railroad track.

The better part of me wishes she would die.

They'd say it was a tragedy. They'd cry for the life they thought she had lost. They'd paint her puppet face one last time, just the way they wanted to. And they'd lay her to rest.

Tears would escape their glossy eyes, and they'd bow their heavy heads.

I'd smile.

My teeth would see the sun. For once they wouldn't be sharp. For once they'd hold no grudges.

Because she is the ball and chain, that girl they force me to be, she weighs me down.

Because she'd die, and I would let her. I'd drop her in the ocean, and watch her misery sink in the abyss of that water.

My soul would be lighten to fly.
I, would be free enough to live.