I don't know why I do it,
exactly.

Maybe I'm just trying to avoid it all.
The people.
The laughter.
The heartache.
The living.

I've heard before
that this isn't the way to live.
But I know no other way.
My vessels have been spilled of their blood.
My heart beats simply to get me through the day.
I got sick of emotion,
because emotion gave me nothing.

Maybe the truth is that I pretend not to care.
And that is why I become the shrew that tears through all of you.
Maybe, though I want to be loved,
in some messed up way,
I know that if I can cause you all to hate me,
then no one will miss me when I'm gone.
Then, maybe, I wouldn't feel guilty.

Maybe I know I can't make it go away.
So I put myself in the situations I know will
put a dagger through my core,
so next time?
...Maybe, I won't go there.
But it never works.

Right now, I'm supposed to be out living,
out being a "college student."
But I'm not.
Because "I'm tired."
Maybe the truth is I don't want to feel.
I don't want happy, because it just goes away.
And everything else?
I just don't want to go there.

Sometimes, I say a lot of things I don't mean.
But hear me,
and know I mean this:
I care.
I love.
I hope.
But it kills me.
And I don't understand this at all.