let me into the bubble, or float on by
9:09 p.m.

ARGH!!!! You're so fucking self-centred. You say you love me, but you can't take a moment out of your little bubble of self to see that I'm falling apart. You tell me how your day was in minute detail and it never occurs to you to ask about mine.

When I reveal the suffocating terror that consumes me when I consider my future, and the fact that I am going nowhere, and that I am so unhappy at college but have no other option than to carry on, and all you can do is pat my head like I'm some fucking cocker spaniel, just because you're a whole year older than me and have your life all sorted out.

I read everything you write, diary entries, poems, lyrics, everything. And I tell you how important my writing is to me, how its all I've ever been able to do, how writing is my release, how I sometimes think I'd have turned to cutting myself if I didn't have writing and how I worry then someday my words will leave me and I'll have nothing left. You never even pretend to be interested. You occasionally read things, but never comment on them. I tell you your writing is beautiful, mostly you can't be bothered to read mine.

You music boys, you're all the bloody same. Utterly consumed by your own pathetic melodrama and angst, and you're about to make exactly the same mistake you so criticised the last musicboy for. Ian Curtis is gone, sweetie, but I'm sitting right here. I don't want constant attention, but I need to feel slightly more important than a dead musician. You're about to let a good thing go. I'll miss you but sweetie, I really can't carry on like this. Giving up on musicboys was always going to be hard, but you're making it a damn sight easier.

Just open your eyes! There really isn't room for both of us to love you like crazy.

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