Dear 2020,
   When I write to you I now have to keep in mind that it isn't only strangers reading my letters. It's Ian, too.
   So, from now on, being honest will probably be harder than it used to be. And I may not write as much as I used to.
  I got some poetry today, carefully sneaking out of the library a book of collected poems by Sylvia Plath, although my mother doesn't want me to read them (she killed herself when she was around thirty).
   And I got some reading glasses because my some of my numerous medications make my eyesight worse.
   So it sounds like I coping well with my condition, and life is going on as it always should have. But it's not.
   I still have those thoughts, I still tye nooses around my neck and I still feel like I'm crawling across rock bottom. And most of all, I hate myself. I don't feel worthy of any love or attention, and it hurts my heart when someone says they love me, although of course, I want people to love me. It's just that although I want them to, I don't feel deserving of it when they do.
   And my allergies are getting worse. I now can't eat apples, peaches, watermelon, blueberries, or bananas. I don't eat meat either, and I'm thinking of cutting out sweet things from my diet because I'm unhappy with my appearance, as usual. So in the end, is it worth eating anything anyways?
   Part of me wants to die and be forgotten forever as if I were never here. The other part is terrified by this thought and wants to be remembered as someone to tried and failed, not tried and gave up. Both parts want to die. But, I should keep positive, right? Maybe then my life won't **** as much as usual.

I wish I could just cut everyone out of my life with a snap so that no one would have to bother to attend my funeral when I die and pretend to be sad.


                                             Love always,
                                                                   Hollin

Tomorrow I turn eighteen.
I’ve been living my whole life hating the fact that I was born
And I could’ve sworn that I wasn’t gonna make it this far
I’ve done my fair share of harm
I’ve popped bars and I’ve let loose
I’ve downed my weight in ***** and juice
I feel as though I have tried it all,
I don’t have very far left to fall
I’m tired of the world making me feel so **** small
I think this might be my final call
Eighteen years have come and gone,
In a hell that went on for far too long
I don’t think this is where I belong,
And I don’t think I’ll be around to hear my birthday song

Every breath I take reeks of calamity
I start counting the biscuit bunnies I had yesterday.
which sadly reach up to eight.
Not my favourite number at all
I look like an exploding fireball
but despite that everything is dark
and ruddy.
like the insides of a trash bin .
My hands are clammy,
throat, a jammed highway of emotions!
If I used ten thousand oceans
as ink, and a million deserts as parchment,
I would be unable to describe my pain
for it was born a torchering antagonist,
a piece of congealed blood in my lungs
and my breath reeks of calamity.