Dear Mother,
I promise I'm not dishonest. I just don't tell the whole truth. Mama, please help me. Fear has set in, and I'm cracking under the pressure. The heat is too much, I'm drowning in my own sweat. I need help. My unbearable sins aren't going, they are unchanging. I tried praying, but it feels like I am just complaining to air. I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!!! I am not talking about committing suicide, I am talking about removing life from something that barely gives me hope. This is no emotional sappy poem, meant for you to feel sorry for me. This is a plead for help, from me to me, because I am in control in my life. And that is something people don't understand. People don't get they are in control of their own lives, and that is something no one can take from them. And then for me, I give this to you. As a gift, with no bow on top. Because some things can't be childish, cute, and pretty. No, some things need to be distorted, some things need to be gross, and just some things need to be traumatizing. So this is my gift to you. This is my letter.
