Sometimes I wonder if my mother and I are alike at all. I wonder just how alike we are.
I make up stories in my head about her killing herself when I was 15 instead of leaving.
I picture her slender body hanging from a rafter, a note written on the back of a photo about how much she loved us all but that she just could be here anymore.
I picture her kneeling in front of the tub with her arms floating in stained waters. Photos of all of us taped to the shower wall, a heart drawn in blood next to them.
I have her kill her self in my head every time i want to die.
I make her into me. I make myself into her.
I make something that never was and never will be real. I make up stories.

Tonight she overdosed on her sleeping pills, a cat climbs into a lap covered with pictures, then jumps off. The tv and sterio are still on, soft female vocals fill the room; 'but what if the world was a little more perfect...'