Dylan,
Do you think that I'm hideous, stupid, ugly, fat, friendless, arrogant, or rude? Am I cruel, mean, and heartless? If you don't think so, can you tell my mom that I'm not? Do I deserve to be hit and beat? Do I deserve to be scorned and isolated? Do I deserve this?
You treat me as if I'm beautiful, smart, friendly, kind, and altogether perfect. You actually tolerate me. I get the feeling you would object to what my mom says and does to me. A knife should look like a kitchen utensil, not a suicide mechanism.
The music in my heart is gone, and the smile my soul wears has vanished. The stone cold bravery that's so readily a part of me has cracked; I am weak. I am very weak. There are walls around me.
I don't care how cheesy this sounds, but you can bring that back. Your smile hits the play button in my heart. Your words captivate my soul. The bravery you bring isn't cold; it's warm, like I know that everything will be good. I am strong because of you.
I'm hearing our song. If you weren't a rock person, we could slow dance to this song. I can see it.
Jamison
