Live And Let Go

Death. It had always seemed like a option, always there. When I was younger I would have vivid day dreams about my funeral. It would be in a local funeral home. One of the cheap local ones, with the ugly plush green carpeting and then hard wooden pews. The music would be the default, because my parents probably would be somewheres else entirely, seeing as how they didn't care about me. Dad would be drunk somewheres, stretched out on a chair, while Mom would be in a bar somewheres, finding her someone to fuck with. Anyways, they would play those songs that everyone has memorized by now. Then some preacher would take the stand and ramble on about how we should all find Jesus. Finally, there would be a line of people who would cry pitifully because they had wronged me and then they would bury me. I would lie in bed at night while I listened to Dad beat Mom and dream that I was already dead and gone, then I would slowly pull out my knife and slice my wrist as I cried. I had only a small group of friends, the rest of the student population had came to the conclusion I was just another emo girl, and they tried to help but they never could- no one could. That is until I met Jude.