Hurt {Clifford}

Talking Guns Aren't Normal, Son

LISTEN TO THE SONG 

Journal Entry 9

 

 

I turned in my old journal in to Dr. Kerry.

This is a new one.

I scratched out the thing about the gun and revised it to make it seem like I am happier; like I am getting better.

I have the gun on my bed and I feel like it's talking to me.

Crazy, right?

I must look so crazy right now.

I'm sitting on my bed writing in a journal that I'll probably burn or regret writing a week later.

And I'm staring at a gun that I'm too afraid to use.

I think I'm stuck in the hole.

I feel it closing around me, I feel the slimy black walls caressing my pale skin and I can hear the creak of the walls sliding on the floor, making a terrible noise that sounded similar to nails on a chalkboard.

I feel like the slime is dripping down into my lungs and preventing me from breathing.

I've planned to shoot myself tomorrow.

I want to feel the bullet cut though my brain, tearing my emotions right out.

I'll go down to those abandoned train tracks and do it.

I wonder how long it will take to find my body.

Maybe animals will get to it before people do.

 I'm sorry mom.

I'm sorry Kasandra.

I'm sorry Emma.

I'm sorry.

I'm so fucking sorry.