Break me

Q

1-13-14

I say and think this all the time, but I mean it every time. I really never do want to talk to you again.

So I bet you get a good laugh every time I come back crying to you. I don't know what it is. It's like I have a internal desire to still have my mom, and the only thing I have is writing pathetic letters to a dead person. You're like a drug.

I was taking a shower about twenty minutes ago, and I dropped my razor on my foot and got a nasty cut on my toe. Yes, I just used the word nasty.

I got blood all over the shower floor.

It's still bleeding as a matter of fact.

I have it all wrapped in in Kleenexes, and when it stops bleeding, I'm going to put a band-aide on it.

It's actually really really gross. You know I've never been able to handle blood. It disgusts me so much. You always said I could never be a doctor. Or a nurse. I made the mistake of taking anatomy this semester, and there are so many disgusting pictures and movies I want to barf. I hate blood.

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Okay I'll stop. You and I are strangers, and I can't even think of anything to say to you. I just ramble like an idiot.

Me cutting myself was one of the things that wasn't your fault for once. There was really nothing you could have done about it. And you probably couldn't help that I probably failed my Anglo-Saxon quiz today either, but that's a different story.

I'm been miserable doing nothing but school everyday. Whenever I'm miserable, I always come crawling back to you.

Maybe those things weren't your fault, but you weren't there for me. I wanted you to give me a hug. Kiss the hurt away. Tell me that everything will be alright. That no test is too hard for me. That as long as I tried my best, I'd be great. I'd be better than great.

This is the worst whinny complaint I've ever written to you, and I'm sorry that I can't do anything right.

But that's okay because you're still a dead person, and you're never going to read this anyways.