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An open letter...

There is a little white box up in my room. I ask you never to touch it. It's my little box of horrors. Where I'll go when I'm alone and crying, like now. Where I go after I get tired of hearing about your adventures and your wonderful life. Where I go when I get tired of this unliving that I seem to do so well. When I get tired of living my unlife through you. I wish it were full of sedatives, but it's not. Maybe if it was, I wouldn't be so scarred. It is instead full of the sharp things in me. Full of red and white. Full of failures, broken dreams and bleeding hearts. Lots and lots of bleeding hearts. Because I am nothing. And empty broken shell of a person. Failing at everything. Who knows you care so little that it's not really caring at all. I've given up trying to make you. I've given up on trying to make myself. And I've given up on painting my face so you think everything is ok. Because it's not really. I'm falling apart and it doesn't matter how many pieces I try to sew back on. They all just find a new place to break at. So instead I'll just help it along. With my own form of therapy. With my little box of horrors. Where you won't see me.

it hurts