The worst kind of death
is the kind that eats away.
Year by year.

The kind of death
that saps strength
'til there's none left.

The kind of death that can't be cured; only treated.
By injecting radioactive chemicals
into her bloodstream.

The kind of death that she tells me,
"feels like I've been hit by a truck,"
every morning when she wakes up.

The kind of death that steals
her future and mine,
and causes even the hardest of heart to cry.

The kind of death that comes with a genetic mutation,
a survival rate of 10-15%,
and 4 years left to live.

The worst kind of death
is the kind of death that is killing my mom.
And eventually, will **** me.

Hey you.
Yeah, you.
You're newly 14, I'm newly 16.
Here is my advice to you.

I know you're broken.
I know you're tired.
I know you're hurt.
And guess what?
You will still be broken, tired, and hurt.

****'s pretty tough right now, yeah?
Well, boy do I have news for you.
It's only going to get more difficult.

Remember when you said you'd never cut
because the thought made you sick?
Well, a year later, you can guess what happened.
Don't worry, you've been clean for a month.

If there's anything you should know, it's this;
Stop trying to do everything yourself.
Stop lying to Mom, and stop thinking that Dad is mean.
They really do love you, trust me.
And if you don't trust anyone else, at least trust yourself.

Please talk to Mom.
Don't shut yourself away in your room.
Spend time with her while you still can.
You don't know it yet, but...she only has a few years left.
Make those years the best of your life, not the worst.
You don't know it yet, but she won't see you graduate college.
She won't see you get married, or open your first art gallery.

Don't procrastinate on those essays.
Putting them off won't get rid of the fact that you still have to write them.
While we're on the topic, be more open with your teachers.
Don't let them call you the wrong name because it makes things "easier".
Tell them who you are.
They will accept you.
They have to accept you.
It's against the law for them to discriminate.

More than anything, don't be afraid.
Don't be afraid to be who you are.
Don't be afraid to stand up for yourself.
Don't be afraid to try. new. things.

And on a sadder note, yes, you did eventually attempt suicide.
You still haven't even told your friends yet, you're afraid that it'd break them.

Don't focus too much on the worst parts.
You will move on from that toxic relationship.
You will be able to love again.
Although, you will always still flinch.
That may never go away.

The path you're on is filling with ***-holes, bumps, and steep hills.
Keep trudging on.
You were never one to choose the easy route.
Hell, life didn't even give you an option.
But I know that you're determined.
I believe in you.

Know this;
You might not think so, but you're very important.
If you can't live for yourself, live for your friends.
They need you.
I need you.

Keep your head up kid.
It's going to get tough.
But you're pretty tough too.
In the meantime, stay alive.
There are people here who need you.
You're going to do great things.
Stay strong.
Stay proud.
Be you.

- Ren

I hate the word "perfect".


Nobody can be perfect.
It's literally impossible.

They say, "Don't change, you're perfect as you are."
Humans can't be perfect.
It's not in our nature.

Our media portrays perfection as people's personalities painted in pretty pastel.
Don't be fooled.
Perfection is disgusting.

Perfection
is tearing your hair out over a simple dashed line
in front of the "A" on the report card.

Perfection
is raking chewed cuticles across your cheeks
for missing the kick in Phy. Ed class.

Perfection
is spilling your guts out after every meal and screaming into the mirror,
"Am I perfect yet?! Am I good enough for you?!"

Perfection
is ripping apart the artwork you poured your heart into
because someone pointed out a flaw, and now you can't unsee it.

Perfection
is gorging on painkillers
as if they would take away the emotional pain, too.

Don't you dare tell me that I'm perfect
because perfection is disgusting.


I hate the word "perfect".

It's that feeling when you wake after a long sleep.
And the sun streams in through the window on your face.

I would give anything just to stay like that forever.
Getting up takes too much effort.

It's that feeling of heavy-lidded eyes on a long car ride.
The steady, low hum of the highway lullaby.

I beg sleep to meet me there.
Yet, she is evasive.

Because it's not what you see when you dream.

Whelp.
Once again, this ******* ****** up.
I tried to help her, but I just made everything a million times worse.

I ended up leaving her sobbing there.
How can I ever come back from that?
She probably hates me.
It's justified.
It'll take some time before I can forgive myself for being a ******* waste of space.

I recently looked at pictures of me.
*******, I'm ******* ugly as ****.
Mirrors don't bother me, it's pictures that do.
All that ******* disgusting acne.

Such a fat, pudgy face.
No discernable cheekbones.
It makes me want to take a knife and sculpt my own face.

I told myself I'd wait until after my birthday.
I don't want Christmas associated with death.
I always tell myself to wait.
Why?

Maybe I hope that by then, I'd forget all this **** inside my head.
It's never worked.
It never will work.
There's nothing, nothing will stop these thoughts.

I write these as a way to cope, but it doesn't work.
I wash my face twice every day to make myself look presentable, but it doesn't work.
My mom is taking immunotherapy for her cancer, but it won't cure her.

Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing­
Nothing.

A mole on my arm has been hurting and getting darker each passing year.
I know what it is.
I know I'll die from it one day.
I can't control that.
It's a gene mutation, after all.
I might be medicated for that in the future, but it won't work.
Nothing will.

I could tell my friends what it is.
But they'd cry.
It's best to have them happy about a different way of death than to cry over a gene mutation.

She thinks she'd be sad if I left.
Lies.
I know she hates me.
I don't know why she talks to me and pretends to be a friend to me.

Maybe it's pity.
Another "friend" already told me that I was a pity friend to them.
So, I'm not surprised if she feels the same.
It makes things easier for me.

I seem troubled here, and she talks to her friend, having fun.
It's nice.
I don't necessarily have a closest friend.

My closest friend and I are becoming distant.
It *****.
I wish I could text her more.
Which I can, but it's something about me.

I'm terrible at maintaining only online friendships.
That's how one of my close friends and I don't talk anymore.
That was my own doing.

I sit and don't do much of anything.
I don't really draw anymore either.
It's not fun anymore.
Every time I draw, I just see the flaws.

Nothing is good enough and it never will be.
I don't know why I try.
I'm not good at anything.
I'm not good for anything.

Today is the 29th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.
I should know.
I had a report on it for my final last year.
Funny how that works.
Now it's stuck in my head forever until I forget again.

I know I will.
I always forget.
It's a symptom.
My ******-up head is destroying my memory.

I can remember basic things, but I forget things that occur.
I don't remember what I ate for dinner yesterday.
I don't remember what I talked to Blake about yesterday,
so I don't remember why he's mad at me.

It *****.
It makes me come off as uncaring when I forget these details about somebody.
That's probably why she sees me as uncaring.
That's not true.
I do care about her.
It's difficult to express for me.

I was raised in a way that didn't include the teaching of sympathy or empathy.
I know this sounds horrible, but if my dad left, I wouldn't be sad.
I wouldn't be happy either, but I wouldn't be sad.
He's already shown what he thinks of me.

I've never good enough.
I get a 4.0 for a semester and a 3.9 the rest of the year and I need to "try harder".
He's always telling me, "you're not trying," or "you're not listening", and I hate it.

How would he know about what I think and feel?
He's not me.
He's set on me being this perfect ******* angel child that I can never be.
He tells me that I'll never be able to pursue an art career and should focus more on studying than drawing.

I don't care.
I WILL be an artist.
I don't care how long it takes.
I'll be an artist and shove it in his face when I have my own studio and open a gallery.

**** the nonbelievers.
I can fly planes AND draw.
Just watch me.
If I don't off myself by then.