I'm a bad person. In your eyes I am bad. I am wrong. I am nothing. I only make mistakes. I disgust you. I'm ugly, to you. I'm the epitome of stupid, by your opinion. You hate me. You want to just end my life, get it over with, all done, goodbye. You ruin my life, for me ruining yours. You can't stand to look at me. Because looking hurts too much. Looking at me shows you just how messed up life can be. You see my fake smile and hear my fake laugh and you want to end it all. You just want to make it stop. You can't understand it, so you don't want to face it. You want so badly to make it stop that it's all you think about. Now, can you remember what made it start? Well, I'm sorry, but neither can I. You hate that, too, the fact that I can't remember why.

You don't like how I push people away. You want to be loved, truly loved. I can't let that happen, as much as I want it, and you hate me for that. You envy others for everything that I don't have. You find me lacking way too much. You hate these secrets burning here. You hate this pain slicing inside and out. You hate the tears that can't be cried, no matter how the sadness overwhelms. You hate it when I let you have too much time to think, to be lonely, because that can lead to bad things. You hate that I give you reasons to be destructive. You hate the way I'm so unforgiving to you for all of this. You know, though, that you're unforgiving, too, and you hate it.

You think I must be crazy, and that everyone else probably thinks I am too, and you hate me for giving them reason to think so. I don't really give them reason though, you just think I do, because you're the only one that can really see through this facade. You hate that I don't tell anyone. You know I try. You know it's hard, but to you, it seems like I am just weak. You know exactly how I feel. You know the sound and the feeling of these cuts, and you know how soothing it can be. You hate me, though, for taking so much comfort in this. I know, though, that you take comfort in it too. I know that you feel exactly the way I do. I know that I feel exactly the way you do. I know, of course, because the "you" I'm referring to, is me. There's no other person who's knows all of it. Only me. I'm alone in this. So, I pretend there is a real "you" to be there when it's dark and I'm alone. To be there helping me steady this blade, so even if I can't think straight, I can still cut straight.