I'm starting to care less and less about what I'm leaving behind, the people who care, the people who don't, things I've wanted and things that I should have wanted. My heart feels heavy, I feel like begging for attention; someone has to see the amount of hurt I'm carrying. But instead, they all focus on their lives and I do too. There's no point in focusing on mine with no help; best friends are fighting each other and I have to be there for them, and I am.
I can't help but wonder if he would have ever bothered to attempt to fix things with me if I hadn't told her that I wanted him to. Surely, it can't be a coincidence that he talked to me about it the same day I told her; I am telling you now that it's getting worse.
I have plastic bags in my room. I fill it up with my breakfast and lunch and dinner and throw it outside where no one can see. I can't seem to eat even if I want to. I wait and wait and wait for a spark that is never going to ignite. Dampness cannot lead to a fire and I am soaking. I'm dripping with sea water or was it tears? I'm not quite sure after last night. In fact I don't think I ever have been sure. Maybe my doubts started in 10th grade where my "friends" passed around naked drawings of me even though they had no idea what I looked like naked. If they did, the drawings would have been a touch more scarred all along the thighs.
Or maybe it was in 9th grade where my best friends boyfriend kissed me and I thought I loved him and ruined multiple relationships.
Or maybe it was when I was sitting alone on my bathroom floor after fainting. Again. Or after cutting myself open just to see my blood dripping scarlet against the tiles of the floor.
Always alone, always scared and always crazy.
