You make me sick.
You make me want to crawl into a hole and never come out again.
I hate it that I don't stand up for myself but What would I say?
I don't want you to hurt me.
I'm sick of you calling me names and making me paranoid.
My pastor says that I should forgive, but that's really hard to do when it comes to you.
I feel like whenever I close my eyes, you are there...
Ready to knock me down, time and time again.
Sometimes I think that maybe, just maybe, the blade will treat me better than you do.
Or maybe all those pills in the cupboard.
Would they make me feel good?
I'll take just one, maybe two or three...
But soon that turns into seven and eight,
And I lose count after fifteen.
They make me forget about you and everything else.
I turn towards the blade and cut my throat to see if the pills want to see my ****** friend, the knife.
My two best friends,
Pills.
Blades.
And I.
What a fantastic trio we make!
But if anyone found out,
They would take you away from me.
And I just can't live with that.
So then the rope and tree would become my new friends.
You did this to me.
Are you happy yet?
To Dad
