"It's impossible!"

I tell myself that everyday.

It's not possible. Or, at least, I don't believe it is.

I flopped onto the floor next to my backpack I threw on the ground.

I don't care anymore. Except... I do care.

But I try not to.

I checked the clock. School ended an hour ago and I needed to be away from people. I could drown in my own misery alone. With no one to bother me.

---

My foster mom knocked on my bedroom door, "Harmony, you want something to eat?"

"No, thank you," I say, avoiding the word mom. Mom—the word hurts. Mine is in jail- so is my dad. I guess my foster parents are nicer than most. Not like it makes the hurt less bad. I tell myself that I'm just pretending to miss them, that I just want to find a reason to make myself look sad, so other people might comfort me.

I don't know why I care about my real parents. In fact, I almost hate them too much to care. But even though I want to be angry, the hurt is greater. I can't begin to be angry. Plus, I reserve my anger for another person.

To forget everything and not care would be freeing. But to forget everything? It's impossible.