You.

There is more than one “you” that needs to be addressed. Not one of you will read this and that’s fine. That’s not what it’s for.

I wouldn’t want you to read it. I wouldn’t want your response. You, all of you, your response would be to tell me why I’m wrong, why my feelings don’t matter, why you are the real victim, why your feelings matter and mine don’t.

Mine don’t.

My feelings don’t matter.

What I want doesn’t matter.

There’s no point in telling you how bad you made me feel. There’s no point in telling you how you made me feel like I’m not real. Like you could unzip me like a costume and there wouldn’t be anything inside. How sometimes I feel like I’m melting while everyone else acts like I’m solid and static and I can’t say ‘help, I’m melting’ because that would be crazy crazy crazy crazy.

But it’s because I’m crazy, because I’m dramatic, because I feel too much, that it’s okay to never ever say sorry. Never ever say sorry. You don’t have to be sorry, because who knows if I’m even real?

Nice real girls are quiet and never yell or break things or get angry angry angry.

Nice real girls aren’t me, so it’s okay that you hurt me. It’s okay. I guess. I guess.

It must be.

So, why explain anything?

Nothing matters. everything is okay. Everything is fine. everything is okay.

Be quiet. Be quiet. Everything is fine. everything is okay. Shhhhhh…..

Close the door.

It wasn’t a big deal.

I’m not a big deal.

I’m not real.

It doesn’t matter how you treat crazy people. Everyone knows that.

And I feel like I’m smiling while the whole world burns. The world isn’t burning, but I can’t stop smelling smoke.