"God. You're so ugly without your makeup. You know you really shouldn't show your face in public. You don't want to end up on that People of Walmart website."

Yeah I know.

"No seriously. You look like you've been hit by a bus."

Nope. Not hit by a bus. Just your ****** comments.

"You know they say sarcasm is just a deflection of an internal struggle, it's an underling issue to something bigger. Maybe you're going crazy."

I'm not going crazy. I'm getting my **** together. I'm in college now.

"Yeah, sure."

No. I wake up at a reasonable hour everyday. I take a shower and do my hair and make up. I do my homework and I make good grades. How can I be crazy when I'm getting my **** together. I have my **** together!

"Look at your room."

What about it?

"It's a mess."

So what?

"It's a mess. Just like you are. You are a mess."

I am not.

"You can shut the door and pretend it doesn't exist. Just like you're doing with that mask you put on every morning. Beyond these walls you're a fake. But behind them, they show who you truly are."

And what's that?

"That you're crazy and chaos. Your room represents what's on the inside. You're falling apart."

I am not crazy.

"Not crazy? As if. You've just been talking to your reflection for the past 10 minutes. Just like you have every day for the past four years. Just wait sweetie, one day I'll come out and play."

After that night the bags under my eyes never went away and streams of white hair made their appearance.
My insides felt like they were planning a revolt and every bit of humanity I had left vanished with a siren like shriek.
My tears felt like acid and the carpet still looks bleached where they fell from the waterfall on my face.
My breath had been stolen by the two ton weight on my chest and I didn't want it back.
My heart had proclaimed its demise because surely nothing can strive after being torn in two.
My eyes wept, my mind wept, even the hands that you used to hold so dear have wept.
After that night my fear has never went away, and even with death, my love never will.

*Some broken hearts just cannot mend.

I can't tell you what it's like to feel like dying.
I can't tell you how I'm so afraid of death but I play with it like its a childhood friend.
I can't tell you what it's like to cry yourself to sleep for the 47th night in a row.
I can't tell you how I feel when I wake up screaming in the middle of the night.
I can't tell you, but I can show you.
I can show you what it's like to feel like dying in my playful smile and dull eyes.
I can show you what it's like to be afraid of death but play with it because I have scars on my body but I refuse to go to a funeral.
I can show you what it's like to cry yourself to sleep for 47 nights in a row by my blood shot eyes and bags underneath with tear stains covering my pillow.
And I can show you how It feels to wake up in the middle of the night screaming by the empty Xanax bottle in the bottom of my purse.
I can't always tell you the things that are going through my mind, but you can't say that I never showed you.

There are things you come to accept when you live in a small town south of the Mason Dixon Line,
not being able to speak out about liberal policies is one of these things.

Even at nearly 19 years old I have a hard time grasping at the reality of death.
Yes it happens to everyone, the thief in the night who claims the old and the sick as easy prey.
But when it comes to the death of a young person, my mind can't process it. They weren't old, or sick. They were healthy and laughing, and now they cease to exist.
I still have moments where I'll pick up my phone and go to text that young person.
The one that I feel like moved across country or just doesn't come around anymore.
It's hard to believe that it's been 3 years...
And even at almost 19 I still have a hard time grasping at the reality of your death.