Don't come running to me wailing about the injustice of life and the pain and hurt and complaining about the fatigue and the stress and the loneliness, because that's the way things are, and it's your own fucking problem if everyone's dealing with it just fine and you just don't have enough of a backbone to remain standing on your own. Sure, it hurts, to whom does it not? You cry and you scream and you slam your knuckles into the wall as you wallow in the perceived depths of your bottomless self-pity. You cut and pinch and bite and claw at your skin and let your repulsive tears mingle with that sickening blood of yours. You sweep all the frames off the wall, fling the books to the other end of the room, smash the tub of glue against the door and shatter the paint bottle in random but spectacular displays of brutish violence - but open your eyes you bitch, do I look like I give a flying fuck? Just who are you trying to impress here, hmm? I've been with you for sixteen torturous years, stuck in your ugly body and cursed with your rotting abscess of a mind, and do you know how long I've been sitting in the saccharine melodrama of your own delusions, watching your plaintive antics to please a world whose obvious apathy is rock-hard and ice-cold? All the while I've scolded you, warned you and punished you, only to see you fail and try over and over again as if you're fucking determined to shake off all the remaining pieces of my crumbling dignity. I'm ashamed. I'm frustrated. I'm sick, sick of you. 

  Do you have any idea...any idea at all...just how much I hate you?  

  You're nothing, nothing at all, and it really is about time you accepted that fact. It would have saved everyone a lot of trouble. That's the way it is.

  I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. 

  Any last words? I'm going to smash the mirror soon.

***

~~~*Left with the Winds at 12.21am*~~~