When I was 10 I watched my father breathe on a machine, and he turned to me, asking “who the fuck” I was, because he truly had no clue.
When I was 11 my best friend told me to never speak to him again, because being seen with me would look bad to his friends.
When I was 12 my sister told me she wished she was an only child, she was 4 years old.
When I was 13 my mother called me a “bitch” and put a hole through my door because I spilled orange juice on the kitchen tile.
When I was 14 my best friend told me he was in love with me, and put a gun to his head, pulling the trigger.
When I was 15 I dated a boy who told me that if I didn’t send him naked pictures of myself, he would punish me by sending pictures of my nude body to my mother, my father, and my whole school.
When I was 16 I dated a boy that put his hands around my throat and said that I “wouldn’t know love if it was wrapped around [my] neck.” That same boy shoved a needle full of heroin in my carotid artery and said, “I love you.”
When I was 17 I dated a boy that told me I neglected him because I called him when I wanted to kill myself. That same boy said he’d never leave me and left the next day.
So I’m sorry, that I don’t know how to show people love. I’m sorry that I get flaky and over emotional. I’m sorry that I could text you every day for a week, but never again for a month. And I’m sorry, that I don’t believe you when you say you love me. But it is not my fucking fault.
Something I needed to get off my chest (via exuperant