"Abby, can't you let me have just this one guy. A chance maybe? Because with your flat chest and skinny ass in the way, he doesn't see me standing there, staring."
"Dad, get off your sorry bumm and do it yourself. I'm so sick of doing your crap around the house when you could easily do it in seconds. I've been doing that for 7 years, and I'm only 13. I'm not doing it for another 6."
"I'm done. Where's the exit?"
"You're so fake that it makes clowns look like normal people. You're a terrible influence and an awful friend, get the hell out of my life."
"I've given all of the advice and guidance I can give you. Where's my help? Where's my shoulder to cry on? This is the last advice you'll get from me: Don't end up six feet under, smothered, dead, like me."
"Oh, well, you know what I did yesterday? Cried myself to sleep, trying to ignore my parent's argument and my little brother's screaming. Thought about how ugly my face looks. Remembered that it's 6 years until I'll be prettier, not living with my mom and dad, free to come and go as I please. 6 whole years until I don't have to go to school and hear the taunts, the yelling, the drama. 6 whole years until my fear that I won't make it past 16 is gone. 6 more years until I can quit wishing my dad would keel over.You know what else I did? Tried to stay alive, knowing you'd have something to cry about the next day. When i'm gone, who's shoulder do you cry on?"
The only reason I cannot say these things is that I'm much to proud to ask Abby to back off, and suicide is like giving up. I. Don't. Ever. Give. Up. I can quit, but that's like admitting defeat as well.
November 9th, 2011 at 03:19am