Note: another vent novel. any criticism will be taken into consideration and then deleted. i am teetering off the edge of sanity. i save the joy for those who care, trying to cure myself here. { Celine. } You thought about it, didn't you? You were going to pull out the IV. You're supposed to be me. We can't be anything if we're six feet under. You saw what the others did. You saw what happened. Bury your troubles back down, because they don't matter. No one wants to see you cry, so suck it up. No one wants to see you quit, so come back. Stop thinking you can just pick yourself up and kick yourself off the face of this planet. You're a great sister. You're a great friend. You're a great girlfriend. You're an amazing person. So suck it up and go watch some Inside Out. Your feelings don't control you. Throw that anti-depression medicine out your window and into the trees. You don't need it. Cry on your own time. And understand what you're crying for. Open your mouth. And kick depression into the depths of [heck]. Let it play hopscotch with the devil. While your tears evaporate as soon as they touch the ground, leaving your salty mark onto the Earth. They see you sitting down on the bleachers at practice. They all whisper about you. "Lazy." "Why the heck is she on her phone?" "She's the only player on the bench." "Why is her skin so pale?" "W H A T ' S W R O N G W I T H H E R ?" Why don't you come up and ask? Your little whispers tell me nothing but e n v y. G r e e d. M a l i c e. You are nothing but a speck of dust in my world. Not worth my time. Leave me now, or feel burdened by the fact that you accomplished nothing by using some random teenager you saw sitting on a bleacher as a conversation topic. Have you no shame? You have no idea. Two voices inside my head clash. Wedlityn. Celine. Both of you are what I am and who I hope to be. You can't be anything six feet under. So suck it up and keep living. I don't think you'd have such deep dimples- or such traumatizing scars- or a bandaged and bruised arm- or such terrible memories- or such a grateful heart- if there was nothing left for you to live for.
raw rough draft. I don't edit these whatsoever. I breathe. I write. I publish. deal with it.
