The thing that annoys me most about the scars on my wrist
are that people take it as a way to tell me what I am.
Emo, right? Daddy didn't like you? Maybe if you were cuter, someone would care. You should've finished the job.

I'm hurting, always, and, in nights so cold that my hands
shake under my blankets, I dream of a tomorrow
in which it was my neck hanging on the oak tree
outside that suburban neighborhood.

That's not for you to decide.

I'm sorry, but I don't think I gave you the right to tell me
who I am and who I'm not. No one determines who should
be dead or not, except for that person and fate. And until the
day my neck snaps, or my wrists bleed, or my eyes close...

**I will not let a stranger determine my own life.