All that I have found in reason, is reason just to not believe

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This little piece of typical tragedy

I am so fucking sick of talking.

It's not helping, and it's not solving anything. It's just empty words. But they insist on making me talk - I guess so they can sleep at night, thinking that they're doing an excellent job at helping the girl who cuts herself. Do they really think I'm telling them the truth? I know what they want to hear. And the conversation is always the same, every time.

"When was the last time you cut?"
"I don't know." Today, yesterday, a week ago, a month ago...

"Is there anything that happened that made you feel like cutting?"
"No." Just my life.

"Why do you cut?"
"I don't know." Because in a world where everything is fake, cutting is real. Because the blood running down my arm is the only thing that matters. Because it just feels right.

It's all such bullshit. It doesn't matter, not at all. As soon as the summer comes, it's over. They won't be obligated to worry about me anymore. And if they're so concerned about the negative impact that it's supposedly having on my floor, then why aren't those girls forced to talk to someone?

6:33 p.m. - 2006-04-29

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self - destruct