dear oliver,
the scissors lay across
from me, retelling the
story over and over
again.
i know what happened,
i know how it all started.
one too many words
passed around out of
anger that end up
as a sentence of regret.
i know you'll never read
this because you're too
busy probably reading
her letters for you.
you probably think i'm
crazy, oliver, but i don't
blame you. i think i'm
losing it too. all i do
instead of homework
is play death scenes
in my head. how i can
die, how will i die,
will i die?
of course, there
isn't room in this
world for disgusting
people like me.
just me.
i'm tired, oliver, i'm tired
of everything. is everything
i do not important? not
even good? do you
always have to turn to
her? out of all
of the people in
the whole world, her?
and i can't tell you what
she has done. i can't.
because you'll hate me.
you'll tell me that i'm
just seeking for attention.
but i am not. i swear.
she's a monster. she is.
who tells someone else
that they need to die?
that they live a sad life
with no meaning?
when they are the ones
who lead it instead.
who?
please tell me, oliver.
because time is running
up and the blade is
only getting deeper.
quinn