2003-09-10

duh

You're going away tomorrow and we keep fighting. Over nothing. Nothing I say can make it any better. I'm quiet, I'm sweet, I'm good, and you're still bitter, cold, and hate me. I don't know what to do anymore. I tried talking to you on the phone, but nothing worked, and I didn't know what to say. You said just sitting on the phone, not saying anything, was wasting time, and you got off so you could think.

Well, while you were thinking, I turned off the phone and cried and shook and said that I can't do this again, I just can't. Having no surplus of anti-depressants or razorblades in the house, I took my knife and traced my veins. I pushed down hard, but I just couldn't do it. I don't know whether to question how dull the knife was or my own will to die. I don't know anymore. All I know is that if things don't get better, I won't be around. Around anyone or anywhere. You'll find me dead on my bed, and I'll be six feet under while you think about whether you ever really cared for me or if I was just a way to pass the time, and that's why you got so frustrated with me everytime there were other things to do, because you didn't need me around to fill your day anymore. That's okay though, because soon the only thing I'll fill was This Summer's Favorite Person to Hate quota, and a coffin, five feet long and two and a half feet wide. Because I just couldn't make it anymore.

Love, Lauren