I'll run inside
-open the door-
and the screen slams shut
(as my father told me not to do)
a million times.

And I'll run in the house
-fly up the stairs-
no hands on the railings
(as my mother told me not to do)
a million times.

So I'll go to my room
-throw the door closed-
and the whole house shakes
(as my father told me not to do)
a million times.

I'll cry on my bed
-sobs become screaming-
not caring who hears
(as my friends told me not to do)
a million times.

I'll remember
-my mind plays a movie-
here comes the sad song
(as my mother told me not to do)
a million times.

I'll be drowning
-gasping, clawing for air-
twenty feet under
(as you told me not to do)
a million times.

And I'll be shattering
-a hundred tiny pieces-
there I go
(as my father told me not to do)
a million times.

So I'll be there
-but not really-
drifting off slowly
(as they told me not to do)
a million times.

I'll be one million and one
-stronger than ever-
learning, not trusting
controlling
believing.
breathing.
*living*
(as I tried to tell myself to do)
a million times.