Sometimes

Sometimes when I cry out "I hate you!" I'm not sure to whom it is I'm shouting it to. The obvious answer is me because I do , in fact, hate myself more than anyone. But sometimes I think I'm screaming it at you. I'm screaming it at you because this is all so fucking easy for you. But what about me? What about this tattered girl you're dragging along behind you like a broken fucking doll that you used to love but now has become a boredom-busting, convenient, play thing? WHAT THE FUCK ABOUT ME?? Go ahead and tear my hair out. I'll let you. I'll even pretend it doesn't hurt. Go ahead and draw on my doll face with permanent marker. I'll pretend I think it's funny. Go ahead and tear out all of my stuffing and I'll fucking laugh with you and shout "It's fine, I don't need my heart anyway!" And you know why I don't need that fucking metaphorical heart? Because it thinks about your name every time it beats and it whispers "I love you" with every contraction. So yeah, go ahead and take it, it's yours anyway. So put it in a glass case so it can get dusty with the rest of your cruel collection. Maybe one day you'll look at it and as you brush off the cobwebs you'll say "Huh, I wonder whatever happened to that girl." Well I'll tell you what happened. After you took my heart my body grew cold. I lost my appetite and wilted away-my outsides finally matching my hollow, chilled insides. And as I'm lying there praying for death to have mercy on me I'll laugh and say, "At least I tried."