So, I'm sitting here, looking at this picture, and I decide....I am going to fucking write about it. Funny thing is, words hurt more than anything else. I want my words to feel like tiny little daggers stabbing little holes into your lungs so you know exactly what it feels like to look at this picture. Maybe I am calloused, or scared, or just don't really give enough of a fuck. But it's not about me in this moment. Its about her. And what she's about to go through. Welcome to being eighteen, my love. Wait until he chooses a manifestation of happiness over the real thing. Then you're going to be the one with a thousand tiny holes in all your organs. Its almost disgusting how easily I fall right back into it. And, the worst part is...I'm aware of it. How is it that a person could put so much effort and time into an appearance and every one in the building will notice and say something when the one person they did it for sneaks out the door? When in actuality, all said person wanted was an honest friend? How fucked up do you have to be as a person to struggle to be a decent friend? You're a self-absorbed ass and you fucking know it. You never cared about me, or my fucking make up, or my silly ideas, or my fucking story. Your own life is a joke to you. How do people live that way? And then there it is again.... my fucking story. You never asked about it. Would you even want to know? Would you like to witness what I have seen? My life is deeper than yours. I just have to remember that. You're the same fucking boy that ruined my spirit when I was a senior in high school. Now you're going to ruin hers. And that's partially my fault. How can you look someone in the eyes and tell them you love them and that they're special when you're being unfaithful... whats it like to be the other girl? Is it better? Worse? When someone cries is it any different when someone else cries? We're all so alone. Even when we're not. No one lives in our head with us...thinks the things we do... knows what horrors our past hides. Its a double stringed, blue, purple, white and green bracelet. That's what my scar looks like. Its a purple ugly eagle sketched onto my ankle, that's what my scar looks like. Its a pack of medicine found in the drug store. That's what my scar looks like. Its a whole fucking room where no one goes with a goodbye letter hidden within its depths. THAT IS WHAT MY SCAR LOOKS LIKE. But... you wouldn't know. You're too busy making them to learn about them. I fill up the little holes poked into my lungs, like usual. How do you get so calloused? You go through something bad enough to make everything else seem petty. You pick the other girl. I imagine 180 pounds of dead meat on the ground. You act like I'm not beautiful enough for you, I imagine the last look my father gave me. You ignore my message yet again, I remember having to wipe drool off my boyfriend's chin. Sometimes I forget. But...I always end up remembering. Time runs out so quickly. I don't even have time to catch my breath. Sometimes, I run. I remember that feeling of running up hill, breathing in all the cold in shoes that didn't fit as if maybe...just maybe if I ran a little faster he'd still be alive. Maybe... if I hadn't decided to eat ice cream, I could have stopped it. Or at least postponed it until I wasn't there. My skin is crawling and my tear ducts are swelling and what.is.this. Stop. Breathe. Hide it. For someone who deserves to hear it all. And that...that isn't you.