1: Your heart, like hornets in a cheap plastic sack, is so full of whirring rage. The spite you hold inside will never build anything. Wrath does not build, it will only destroy. You are reckless. Hurdling down the highway at incredible speeds. I know you are hurt. But where do you think you are going? Your lack of self control will end everything you love. You think you see hope at the end of this road, so you speed faster and faster. But the only thing at the end is the mangled corpse of what you loved most.
A wrathful heart is no heart at all.
2: We’re at Denny’s, sitting at the big booth. Our two friends are using the butter knives as props for jokes about cutting. I clench my right thigh, feeling the scars that stay hidden underneath the multitude of layers of my clothing. I notice you, looking out the window with that solemn face of yours. Of course we couldn’t say anything. They knew no different. We could never tell them anything. We knew what they would ask, “why didn’t you tell us?” Of course we couldn’t say a word to our friends. The friends that called me a “man hater” when I told the older boy at my school to “fuck off” when he was leching at my breasts. These were the friends who would tell you to stop acting so emo when you wanted to cut your own head off. What are you suppose to tell these friends? “I think about how I want to die about four hours each day and try to come up with new plans” or “I wish when I died the first time, I stayed dead”. Our friends are not good people, and I am trying not to hate them. They just don’t understand, and we can’t blame them for being naive. I am trying not to resent them, but…Our friends aren’t good people.
3: I do not mind being the enemy of the people as long as it means justice