The awning is screaming BITTER END. You see and laugh, "Let it come." I do not understand why, they told me of my lie. You cannot write, you are too young. Young rolls off the tongue, acid rain, a chemical burn branding age. They backed me into a corner, "What could you possibly have to say?" You cannot write. But then why do these words flow, pouring from my lips, eager to be noticed? So I have to question. A hand raised in the sky. They point not to the sun, bathed in a sea of hope, but to the blue awning with its self-prophecy casting shadows that scramble to conceal light. "Look forward to it." Contempt dissolved into saliva, spewing malice from cold lips. They hate me for naivety, well I had hope. BITTER END erupts from within, resting in my mouth, a drop of poison. You cannot write. They told me this and I believed. Youth is my disease. I do not know of life, I cannot speak of love, I will never be wise. What do I have to write down? Why would anyone listen to my voice? All this time they thought I had been writing for you. No. No, that was never true. I write for me. I only wanted you to know I was human. They told me of my lie- you cannot write. So I wrote it down.