Dear Miss Suicidal

"I have more scars than friends," she cries out.
"I'm fine. I already ate. I'm just cold," she lied.

Her heart turned bitter cold, no more of the sweet loving girl. She knew what she wanted to do, and that's what hurt her most. She listened to the voice she made up in her head telling her to take the pills. She bawled every night in hope of getting out of this hell hole she was forced to call life.

Mental hospitals were threatened, but no action further. Parents divorced and her life started to fall apart. Her anxiety disorder didn't help either. She was picked on for dating a girl. She was bullied for going against society. She cried every night as she slit her wrists, hoping to feel something other than sadness.

When all hopes gave up, she grabbed the bottles, she wrote the letters and she quietly stayed in her room. She sat on her nicely made bed with the notes in her hand, and the bottle in the other. Under her pillow was a folded note. She wiped off her tears and grabbed the letter.

"Dear Miss Suicidal," She read aloud.