ahahah my teacher believes I need to see a shrink.
To be specific, my English teacher.
My dad called today. He kept talking.
I wasn't really listening to him.
He was just telling me about my marks. Asking me things I don't want to answer.
I don't blame them.
I write morbidly. Darkly.
It's not pretty things.
Not like her writing.
I don't write sparkles,
or glitter,
or pink,
or cherry blossoms,
or roses,
or flowers.
"Queen of a slaughterhouse".
That's how I described my future.
It's not literal.
Of course,
but it's true.
I'm just a "little girl hurling up her lunch".
She wouldn't understand.
I don't want her to.
I don't expect her to.
I'm expecting to talk about anything.
I'm not hoping to have a conformity.
I don't plan on a compromise.
I don't plan...
To be deceived by myself any longer.I'm beautiful.
The most sorrowful words.
My father told me on the phone, "If you have to talk, talk to me or mom."
don't tell me that.
don't tell me that.
I don't want to hear any of that.
Even if I'm told to be better than I believe I am.
Smarter. Stronger. Confident. Bright. Intelligent.
If a girl who believes she's only going to be slaughtering herself, only going to be the end of herself, only going bury responsibilities and shame and reality in the darkest parts of her heart and them up there...
is beautiful,
then god be it, that is one taboo woman.
Why didn't Shakespeare make a woman like that?
Why didn't he write of a woman like that?
I am a madman. Attacking a blank white wall.
The girl who holds onto stolen goods,
relies on the poison of others,
and hears her life crumbling deafening her ears.
I'm the god
and the past is my god.
I am at war. The victim is me.