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Dear Isabelle,

If for some reason I made you uncomfortable today,

I am terribly sorry; I definitely screwed up.

You talked about your scars and I couldn't help but stare.

I didn't mean it in a awful way, I didn't mean to cause you any more pain.

I just wanted to hold you and tell you it would all be okay, but things like this you hear everyday must drive you insane.


Every story written is marks upon a page, the same marks you own on your skin tell a story, some repeated but with so much more pain.

I don't really know what to say here, but who am I to claim what your story truly is about. I just don't want you to be alone.

They keep saying we are too young to experience true sadness, but if crying in your room at 4:00 a.m because you're failing school, because you hate yourself, because you're sick of getting screwed over, or simply because you're upset, if that's false sadness then I do not want to know what true sadness is.

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