September 1, 2013

       I don't think people understand what it's like to be me.

Whoever came up with the phrase 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me' is a liar. A horrible one. Because words do hurt. And I hate how I'm the one to feel the worst pain. Like a billion little knifes stabbing your skin. And they're small because they want you to feel more pain. They want you to cry, and cut, and punch every mirror you dare look into. It's all a joke, I swear it is. And no one cares until you're dead. When your limp body lies in the middle of the floor with a puddle full of blood. Then they start to regret the words they spat at you. The things they threw at you. The times they laughed at you. And death is the only way. You can't fake it, because the thought of baring that pain for the rest of your life makes your heart crumble, like a rotten peach, getting in its old age. So you have to pull the cold trigger. Kick the chair. Jump off the bridge. And have them all show up to your funeral. With regretful, apologetic tears. And a year one remembers you. Or how you died. Or even why you died. They just knew your name, which only sounded like the next guys'.

     Nope, you don't know what it's like to be me...


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