This may all seem really random, because hell, I don't even know what I'm thinking, let alone what I'm writing. But see, I've got this toy snake I've been playing with, you know, one that looks really real, like stop what you're doing, like pupils widening, like oh my god real. And I keep twisting it in and out of my fingers and around my wrist, just hoping it might come alive and squeeze, just hoping it would crawl its way up to my neck and squeeze squeeze squeeze until I was white, no blue, no black in the face. Because baby, I know I can't do it on my own. And isn't that what we've been screaming to the world for ages now? But you like acting cocky, and you like pretending like you know best. And I think I might like the idea of you being cocky and you knowing best because sometimes it helps to know that someone's got it right, that someone is going somewhere, that God doesn't just hate us all. I always love a happy ending.

I tried to write a story the other day. It was about all the things you do to me, about all the fucked up things you've made go on in my head, but my mind butted in and towards the end you said you were sorry and I was just like sure, why not? Then we turned into birds and flew away. I always wanted to fly. I'd thought about handing it to you in one of those official looking manila envelopes, you know the kind, that just holding makes you feel like hey I'm important. But so much for that, you know. So much for sticking it to you and showing you how the acidic taste of loneliness leaves scars in your mouth. I just burned it and scattered the ashes off of our new deck in my backyard which made me think of my daddy and how I miss having someone to call daddy. And all the thoughts of loneliness made me want to throw up all of my organs just so that I could maybe finally be as empty on the inside as I've been feeling. Or maybe I just wanted the satisfaction that bulimics get when they vomit away their impurities. But when I opened my mouth nothing came, which made me feel even more lonely, like hey, maybe there's not anything really there after all, like hey, maybe you really are worthless, like hey, why are you alive?

But I crossed my fingers and told myself that things have to get better one day because hey, I have to die eventually. And I pressed a knife to my skin and let a few drops of blood fall, but not too much because you know how even touching my veins makes me cringe. And then one tear fell which made me start crying because I knew I shouldn't be crying and I knew I shouldn't have done that and I knew I had no real reason to be sad. But in a world where eating disorders and emotional disorders and crying yourself to sleep is cool, what's it matter? So call it trying to score popularity points, call it dealing with problems, call it stupid, but please don't call it a cry for help because if there's one thing you've taught me it's to never let them know you need help and I swear I don't need help I'll never need help I don't want help. Unless it's from you. I'd let you help me. Maybe that's why I need you so bad. I can't do it on my own.

Last night I wished on every star I saw and I think that if I'd known where birthday candles were I might've even lit a few to blow 'em out. I asked God to let me forget you because until I forget you I'll only be able to dwell on what I want to be different and what will never be different and God, I wish I was different.

I keep painting my nails to stop me from biting them because I know that personality counts but the pretty girls always win. And I want to be beautiful so bad. But I tell myself baby, let it go, because it seems you just weren't born to win. That's life. Thanks for playing. Nobody cares.

Did you know that today I gave up on writing? It seems I can give up on it, just not you. But I was trying to write, trying to force it out of me, trying to make magic happen. And I got mad. I wanted to ask God why he made Sylvia and Robert and William such geniuses but couldn't leave some talent for me. And I just wanted to be happy again, just wanted reassurance, so I went back to all that I've ever written and I thumbed through it and felt it was just so fake, so much like me. And when I said I wanted to be different I didn't mean fake. Or did I? I just don't know anymore and I can't stand having more things to think about so I've just decided to give up even though quitters never win. A guy told me that once, that quitters never win, when I said smoking would kill him. He was just like sweetie, I'd do anything to die happy and right now I am, so the sooner I die the better because I never want to feel sad again. And I felt stupid but couldn't help think whoa, that's deep and whoa, that's true and whoa, I want that.

And now that blade's sitting in front of me again and I can't help but stare and ask myself if I could really dig it in two inches to my heart. Because something in my head just tells me that it isn't meant to be there and that if it was gone then I wouldn't remember how you were gone and I might be able to let myself go too. Maybe not though. Because you'll always be near, but not close enough. Next to me, but not wanting to be. Here, but not here.

So I'm still sitting here with that snake just winding it around and waiting on it to come alive waiting on us to come alive. Because baby, I've got all the time in this world where you've seemed to stop caring about me.