They point their dirty little fingers,
whispering their stupid little lies,
and now everyone is staring,
wondering why you're even here.

The cheerleaders laugh at the clothes you wear,
the football players push and shove you around calling you weak for not fighting back,
when there are too many to fight,
the adults stand there
looking around like nothing is going on,
they won't even listen when you tell them what's going on.
You tried to tell your parents about them,
but they just say shrug it off.
"Bullying is apart of growing up" Dad says.
He doesn't notice the tears rolling down your face,
nor the helpless look in your eyes.

One cut turns to thousands of cuts,
wearing hoodies to cover them up,
all the pain you've ever felt,
but today was different.
Instead of picking up the razor,
you choose the gun.
Instead of crying,
you sat at your desk,
your final farewell on a sheet of paper.

Downstairs you parents were drunk,
nothing mattered to them except the beer that's in their hands,
They never even noticed the sound of the gun going off.
In the morning, the school called,
You're not there.
Blistering with rage, your father storms into your room and freezes.
He has seen the blood on the walls,
your body lying on the bed,
the gun on the floor near your hand,
he screams for your mother,
a moment later they call on ambulance,
but it was to late.
You were already flying through the sky,
in a pain-free place.
"Abigail come back please!" your mom cries, knowing you can't hear her anymore.

Your parents read the note,
they blame theirselves for your death,
the cheerleaders starve themself,
even though they know it won't bring you back.
The football players are doing drugs,
to take their mind off of the guilt of your death.
You thought nobody in the world loved you but you were wrong.
There ARE people who care about you.
They just never made it clear enough,
perhaps tried to but in the wrong way.
Oh, Abigail, why did you have to leave us?