by Rachel Lynch in

Many men wish death on me. But I don't cry anymore, I don't look to the sky anymore. I hear the ghosts are calling me home, have mercy on me. Most days I can barely stay above 80 pounds, but I'm tough as raw hide behind bars. Somewhere my heart turned cold, at night I talk to God but he don't say nothing back. He came to my house and told me my faith was a product of my imaginative. So I go to the gym and beat a punching bag till it can't breathe, because I'm angry at God for not being there for me. And I'm angry at the man who told me it's all a joke, who watched me lose my faith as I began to choke.

But for every low there's a higher high. I don't know how to cry but I guess you could say I'm healing. You can only throw so many punches until you realise you have to deal with your demons verbally. I don't think what happened to me is all that special, but I'll try to find a sentence or two so I can bring it to you. Death must be easy because life is hard. Giving up would be a cop-out, wouldn't it? Chip on my shoulder, I've never been known to turn my back on a challenge.