There is no real, definite reason why you would want to kill yourself. It’s the constant, never-ending gnawing at the back of your skull that drives you insane. I found a way to shut it up but I had to cut so many fucking branches that I wouldn’t stop bleeding and writing your name on each leaf that fell. You told me to forget it all – but how could I forget everything if it was written all over my fucking arms? You kept asking if I knew what was wrong with me but all I knew was that I needed a god damned chainsaw to cut all the branches off and maybe then I’d know what went through my fucking mind when I met you.

A CONFESSION I’D NEVER TELL:                 I hate it when people tell me that they completely understand the pain I’m in because they didn’t have to feel their best friend’s tears soaking up their shirt while his dad was at home too drunk to even remember he had a family. And I hate it when people tell me that I shouldn’t exaggerate my sadness because they didn’t have their best friend die in their fucking arms and pretend that life was still beautiful in rosy hues because it is NOT FUCKING BEAUTIFUL.

Two days ago you called me at 3am in the morning and I should have picked up.

I wonder if the cross around your neck means more to you than I do.
You wonder if the emptiness in me would swallow you alive.