"I'm not an artist. I'm just a kid with a keyboard."
“And, y'know, I’m probably not really sick.”
“I read a lot of books. I probably just act like this because I saw it somewhere on the Internet.”
“I just want to be more like my dad.”
“I’m really just a pathological crybaby who wants attention,” I tell you.
You say, “I think there are better ways to get attention than fake a mental disorder.”
“Maybe I’m doing it for fun.”
The problem isn’t that I need to see a therapist.
The problem is that I need to see a therapist because I dream about slamming your head into a tree.
Right after we broke up, you took me to the bike cage and promised me everything would be okay. Then you got together with that fifteen year old from Michigan and told our friends that I was a freak.
Slamming your head into a tree might be painful, but nothing will ever hurt more than knowing I did nothing wrong and I got hurt, anyways.
It’s been eleven months since then and I’m still in the exact same place.
I compared falling in love to somebody holding a gun to your head in an eighth grade English assignment, and I nearly got suspended for it.
But it’s not fair because falling in love with you put me in therapy.
People say I need to let go, but I will never let go. I will never try to move past this because then I’ll lose, to another boy, and the only person with a gun to my head will be me.
The problem isn’t that you loved me.
The problem is that I found a broken boy sixteen years later who was just like you. And when he broke my heart, it was like every time I had to find you passed out on the couch.
It was worse.
It was worse because I did everything I could to make us better, and in the end I lost both of you, anyways.
The problem isn’t that you’re not dead.
The problem is that I think being dead hurts less.
The problem isn’t that I still love you.
The problem is that I hate myself so much that I let him break my heart even after you’d already done it for him.
(The difference is, when you said you were sorry, you meant it.)
The problem isn’t that people were telling me to blame you.
The problem is that people were telling me to blame you for everything that was wrong with my life. And I did – and I’m sorry, too.
Quietly, you say: “Are you having fun?”
I can't feel the tears until they're halfway down my face.
“No, I’m not.”