kelland

Oh.

How I want this to be goodbye.

How I want to fall asleep, fast asleep, and never wake up again.

I love it how I call upset. And I am on the verge of destruction. And you are busy. Always too busy for me. When all I wanted was someone to talk to. Just for a few minutes.

I love writing heartbreakingly difficult letters and dropping them off at your door so you can not respond to a thing I've written. Act like you never read it. I knew you would. You always do. And a week later everything is the same.

I love how I dial every number I can think of because my tears are streaming hard and I feel so many unwanted things. And no one is home. No one has time. No one is there when Erica wants to die. Everyone dies alone.

Yeah. I'm pathetic to write this. And pathetic to want two or three bottles of something that could do me in. And pathetic for hurting. Hurting so fucking much it is mere lameness that brings me here to write it. Pathetic for crying the hardest when I put down the phone knowing you'd not call me back.

I'm glad I can depend on my friends.

This isn't just a piece of writing. This is me talking about how I feel.