Finger paint of sand and glass

 I could barely move. My body looking as if it's just one massive bruise. I was only able to sip on chicken broth. My heart feels as destroyed as my innocent.  I been only going through my mind asking myself what could to have deserved this. How to I been nothing more of value for my family. How could I have shamed them when I was just trying to help. 

Where could I have misguided my own worth so badly. Maybe I was the mistake my brother claimed I was and there really is nothing good about me or my life.  Maybe this was God's way to let the world forget I ever existed and stop me from ever being where I could ruin good peoples lives. 

Maybe 11 years is all I'm suppose to see. Nothing I do was good enough to save my father from his drug addiction, from getting my brother seeing I was trying to do my best or my mom seeing I did my best to stay out if the way and require nothing of her or the family. 

Maybe it's wrong right now, what I miss most is my animals. My cats and goats. Sitting under the Reed grass as it blocks the wind, building my little villages with weaving mats for roofs and doorways, making umbrellas for near by ant hills. Just the quiet of the outdoors, no voices but birds and hooves clanking on broken sandstone rocks. Leaving out my room and night and curling up with the other little kids of the goats and listening to crickets, distant owls, and the occasional shrill of the nighthawk. Alone in this room and that's what I miss most. Those are the part of my life gone that feels like it's dragging jagged broken glass sliding across my heart and my future.