I
can’t
stand this
pain. It’s not
even emotional
this time. This time,
it’s physical. My head
keeps pounding, my bones
won’t stop hurting, I’m dizzy,
and honestly, I just want to sleep.

                                          I

do feel bad sometimes.
I know that my words
hurt others, and I
promise myself time
and time again that I

                                         am

going to cut the
sarcasm. People think
that I do it because it’s
funny, because it
makes people laugh.
It’s not an attention
thing. It’s a defense
mechanism, my own
bullet-proof vest. I’ve
always been the joke,
so I’ve created this
strong, fake persona
to keep myself safe.
Sure, it’s protected me
from others, but I
often can’t stand
myself. Every time I
make a dark, clever
comeback, people
laugh along, but all
I want to say is, “I am

                                       sorry.”

I hope that
one day,
you see my
scars and
realize how
many of them
you caused.

"It’s not your fault."

The words that have saved me
time and time again.  Before
they’re uttered, I know that I’m
the one to blame.  I must be.
I’m human, I make mistakes,
but I make more mistakes than
most people.  I’ve hurt too
many people, I’m addicted to
hurting myself.  My soul is
bruised.  I want to be repaired,
I want to be taped back
together, but how can I, when
I know the world’s problems
are my own fault?

I want to have

                                    sex.

I’m not experienced
or anything like that,
but hey, isn’t that
they best kind?  The

                                   sex

where you enter the
unknown, prepared
for anything, but
knowing nothing.
You might not even
be that good, but
who cares, when

                                 sex

is the question?
We’re in it for the
rush, for the lust,
for the experience.
It’s not taboo, it’s
a natural part of
life, a part I wish
I was familiar with.
It’s not love, it’s
simply meaningless

                               sex.

I don’t

                       know what it’s like to
                       fit in. I simply don’t

belong

                       anywhere I go. But
                       really, who does?
                       No one is normal.
                       No one belongs. I
                       don’t know what
                       individual issues
                       you have with
                       where you are,
                       and that’s okay.
                       All I know is that
                       I don’t belong

here.

What’s the difference between

liking someone              and              loving them?

To do nothing                 or                everything
                                 for them?
To live about                   or                for them?
Are they hot                    or                beautiful?
To have sex                    or                make love?
Are they feelings             or               truth?

Is it real                          or                fantasy?

I feel like I’m

                             slipping

                                                          away.

This person
that I am is
unfamiliar
to me, I don’t
know her,
she doesn’t
know me.
Help me,

                         I’m already

                                                        gone.

I’m

                   not your clay model.
                   You don’t decide what
                   to do with me. I’m not

your

                   project, I’m nothing for
                   you to experiment with.
                   If I do this, will she break?
                   What about this?  Don’t
                   you know that she’s already
                   broken? I don’t want to be the

creation

                  of your deception, but without
                  you, who would I be?

If you’re in my past,
stay in my past. There’s
a reason you’re not

with me anymore,
you know that, right?
The sad thing is,

I don’t think you
have any clue how
much abuse you

put me through,
and I hate you for
that. I hate you

for choosing me
as your source of
strength. Who

the hell do you
think I am? I’m a
weak person, I

can barely take
care of myself, much
less you too.

You can’t hurt
me like that then
expect me to

just take you
back into my life.
Stay in the past.

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For your own purposes, however,
you can call me Hope.
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