Stop playing with death; it isn’t yours to play with.  My children, my children, why can’t you see
that death is a real threat, the greatest fear of mankind?  Every bloody scar and every bite of food not
taken is a laugh in the face of humanity. 
Live for the girls who are dying of AIDS thrown into the streets outside
the brothels of India.  Live for the
starving people in countries you have never been in and never will go to,
afraid of the political dangers.  Live
for the killed women and children in Iraq; live for the refugees in the United
States, sent to the country theirs is fighting so they can stay alive.  Live for the woman lying dead by the hands of
the husband, the man she gave chance after chance to, on the floor of her
home.  Live for the baby crying in the
next room—the cops won’t find him until he’s dead a week later.  Death is not a children’s toy; you shouldn’t
be allowed to play with it.

I can breathe the air, damp, fresh, I can feel it coming off
the pond. I want to run to the top of
the hill and back again but I don’t want to watch all the couples walking
together tonight; no; I need time with my own love. I hear the wind; I harmonize with it; I dance
with it. For a second I am flying
through the air and I land on the grass. It soaks through my sweater and I laugh out
loud. I know I look ridiculous; I’m
practically a grown woman spinning and jumping under the xxxxxx stars. I am here, I am now; that is all. For one moment I can be beautiful and I can
love. I am a teenage girl: infatuated, unthinking, dreaming, spinning,
pure, dreaming of the day music will sweep me off my feet and take me away.

It’s like this.

Because just when you think you’re crushed, you realize
you’re actually the luckiest person in the world.

Because you realize the reason you’re hurting doesn’t really
matter in the end, but the pain of somebody else is that much worse, that much
more terrible.

Because you see it with your own eyes and you can’t stop it.

Because you’re scared now, and not for yourself:  you’re scared of something you have no
business witnessing.

You’re scared because now you’re involved and all you wanted
to do was be a high school senior.

At the end of the day, I’m the luckiest person on earth, but
she might be dead.

And I wonder, would it be my fault?

WARNING
-The following is graphic.
-The following may be TRIGGERING for people who struggle with issues such as, but not limited to: depression, bipolar disorder, eating disorders, self-mutilation, and suicide.

In the end, it's my fault.
In the end, I'm not the girl who couldn't pay attention
Or the girl who tried not to care.
In the end, even if I didn't let myself fall in love with people,
I fell in love with places and things.
In the end, I let myself fall apart with that house.
In the end, I'm the one who tried to die last summer
They say all you have is yourself
Your body
But I don't even have that
Scars take away my beauty, and
In the end, I don't know what I have left.
Perhaps nothing.
Perhaps everything.
I have my memories, but I can't control them anymore.
In the end, I can't control what I have left:
In the end, it's all my fault.