The first time I cut, I was in sixth grade.
I'm not sure exactly what drove me to do it, but once I look that blade to my wrist, I knew I was at the point of no return.
Or so I thought.
And I knew it would kill me, and I knew it was bad.
But I didn't stop.
And things only got worse.
I muffled my tears in my pillow as I cried for the first time in years.
I never let people see me cry.
No matter what.
I don't cry.
They all say I'm a good kid, bad spirits can't get that one down.
Well those fuckers are wrong.
I never got it.
Not until recently.
Nobody gives a shit.
Wendy's cool...
I guess.
And some of the other theater kids say hi to me...
But it's all fake nobody gives a shit.
That's why I'm surprised to find an oddly familiar lopsided grin standing outside my window just as I slip down my tree trying to escape this rancid "home"
With my fucking crazy ass parents.
I'm so done.
"What are you doing here" I spat, the harshness in my voice matching the fiery look in my eyes.
"I don't know" he said with an expressionless face.
He was lying.
"Let's get out of here"
I followed, grasping onto his hand.
Thank you for taking my hand,
Young liars.