Roses are red
So is blood
My tears could cause a flood
'
I have this thing. This thing seems to loom over me at all times of the day. Why does it hate me?
I have this thing.
This thing loves to tell me that my friends hate me. They're liars. Liars. LIARS!
I want the truth. I don't want to be called names, or made feel not as good. Is it something I did? Is it because I'm slightly younger? Do you enjoy being older? Do you like calling me things?
I've always taken them as jokes. But are they? Do you know that they hurt? Do you realise that I feel things too? Maybe... maybe you dont know. Maybe I'm convincing enough.
That's a bad thing.
Isn't it?
Well.
Who cares anymore?
Not me, that's for sure.
Not you.
Not her.
Not them.
Not anyone.
I dont.
Promise.
I don't care.
You dont get to me.
promise.
