one of us will die inside these arms.

traded your bucket and bruises for a bag of bones and a wardrobe of excuses.

you live too hard, you look too good.

beautiful boy, what can i do? i told you, i told you.
beautiful boy, i know i never do what i want to, i want to...

oh sweet Jesus, isn't this enough?

you don't know that the scrapes and scratches on my stomach and ribs are so bad. you don't know that they're so bad i can't wear clothes to bed. so i thought of you when i was naked last night. i wrapped myself in a sheet and pulled the cord from the wall so the lights would go out. i stopped waiting for your reply, but i started thinking about myself and my skin and my brain and why i think the things that i do. i should have kept my mouth shut, i should have let the phone ring and ring like you always do. i should have put you in my place, i should have had you worrying. but you would not worry. you don't care like i care. you don't love me like i love you. it's either that, or you just don't love me at all.

i should never be second best. i should never be second best to my mother, or my father or my best friend. and i should not be your second best. but i guess i could be third, maybe fourth to you. at this point, i feel like you'd defend a murderer before you'd defend me, before you'd even hear me out. the emotional and physical stresses i was handed this week must be a cruel joke. do you really not have any idea what you do to me? do you really not have any idea what a hospital stay can do to me? do you not know me at all? i've only ever asked for one thing and even after all this time, you still don't get it. and then i look like the bad guy. to all your friends, to all the bystanders.

you don't even read this. it's all bullshit anyway. "i want to be the girl with the most cake. i love him so much it just turns to hate. i fake it so real i am beyond fake. and someday, you will ache like i ache."