I'm Falling Apart...Will Someone Pick Up My Pieces?

A story about poetry, falling apart, and friends

Based on a true story

Please, do not tell whose story it is based upon, if you know. This person would like for the world not to know about her personal life sometimes.

Chapter 1

Hi, I'm Raelie.

It started off with love.
Then one day I was done.
For the pain that I'd endured,
Was fair for no one.
I'd crash, I'd burn, I'd die,
But still, I stood alive.
Patience: I had none.
But 'twas not for me to decide.
I'd suffered for a lifetime.
And it was all for you.
Say goodbye to pleasure.
Because it's said goodbye to you.

I scribbled quickly in cursive into my newly-started poetry notebook. Then I signed my name - Raelie - at the bottom of the page.

I'm Raelie Medal. And I love to write.

I write all kinds of things. Poetry, song lyrics, stories. I don't really choose what I'm going to write. I just get inspiration, and I write it down it its designated book so it's not lost forever in my mind.

I have a book for poetry - my poetry books says, "Raelie's Poems" on the front in bubble letters and is full of different colors. There are soft colors - soft pinks, blues, greens, yellows - to show the soft side of poetry. But there are harsh colors - neons, dark reds, blacks, and deep purples - to show that poetry isn't always about fairy tales and happy endings.

I love laughing. I love making people happy. I love smiling. I love it when people think about me, even when I'm not thinking about them. I love feeling...I don't know.


It's summer vacation before seventh grade. I start school back on August 27, coincidentally, my birthday. So I start seventh grade on my thirteenth birthday party! Fun, right?

Actually, it is fun. I don't like to brag or suggest that I'm a fan of stereotypes, but I guess I can be considered as what some people call popular.

I don't know why people I don't know know my name.

It doesn't make sense. Don't ask me why, but if you find out, can I have an explanation? Please and thank you.

I hear the doorbell ring. When I'm sitting upstairs, on my bed, in my room, and I'm the only one home.

My parents don't have a "don't-answer-the-door-when-you're-home-alone" rule like all of my friends' parents do. Their only rule is that I can't have people in the house when nobody's home unless the house is clean, and we can't leave the street.

My parents aren't very strict.

So I spring to life off of my bed, flinging my poetry book somewhere; onto the floor, most likely. Then I forget a really important fact about the structure of my house...

The stairs are right by my door and I just ran out.

"Ouch!" I yell as I tumble down the stairs.

Curse my deep thoughts and likeliness to forget where things are in my house!

Ouch, that hurt!
Forgive my pain.
Punch the walls in,
Punch the rain.
Curse the silence.
Curse the death.
Curse the endings,
And curse the rest.

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