So tonight I felt like driving. I felt like I needed to get away. Like the world was too much and everything was too soft instead of too hard. And I needed it to be only me, the stars, the hood of my car and the state border line. But instead of leaving, I climbed in bed where my comforter was smothering and my pillows were lumpy. And there was still no one asking me if the light was bothering me. But if someone were there to ask me, I'd say yes but for all the wrong reasons. My mind was stickier than candy left in a hot car, but my emotions were bland like boiled chicken. It's because I had been here before. I'd done this all last time and none of it felt new. It felt like it was all happening for the first time. Like nothing had changed and I hadn't become a better person. But I have news for you...nothing actually changed and I'm not a better person; but boy did I wish I were somebody else right now. Nothing was for sure and I wasn't positive about any decision I made. And it was all because the world had become too soft and I was all the wrong kinds of hard. I was hard to catch, hard to watch, hard to talk to, and most of all it was hard to breathe. But life was good at taking my breath away. And I knew right then I should have taken that as my frist step to suicide. You'll ask me all sorts of questions, and I'll give all sorts of bad answers. None that you were looking for and none that I was expecting to give. But you'll never get inside my mind. Because everything I ever told you was a lie. The truth, to me, was like a secret. And I was never going to leak. Because secrets were all I had. The only thing I knew was true and the only thing I could keep to myself were secrets. I was the quiet kid in the back that you never had to worry about because you thought I was quiet because I was full of knowledge, curiousity and wonderment. But really I was filled with death, destruction and disesase. But I was knowlegable about how "timmy walked down the road and not across the street" and curious about if blood would stain the new procelin tiles my mother just put in the bathroom. You see, because life for me was always a little difficult and a little tiring, but being tired was always an excuse I was comfortable with. And you'll be first in line to ask me about how my dad used to hit me and my mom used to go to the bar alot. How my mom would have a new friend at breakfast eery monring and I knew better than to ask if they were my new daddy. You wanted all the common answers about how I wasn't raised quite right. But all I could do was look at you as if I didn't quite understand and how none of this was making perfect sense. But I was just oh so tired. I didn't feel like explaining how things were different for me. How I wasn't like any other case you'd treated. Because I grew up with the most loving mother and a father that was only three quarters as bad. I'll tell you how bold I was, how great I was supposed to turn out. But instead, I'll sit here on your tiny little sofa and lay down like I see actors do in movies and I'll wait patiently and quietly until our time is up. I'll get up and yell over my shoulder, "see you next week" because if I stood and said goodbye properly, you'd mumble an over-used inspirational line, look into my eyes like I would find someting kind and trusting in yours and breakdown, and you'd holld my hand in a handshake a little too long to the point where I'd be uncomfortable and think you were a pedophile. But really while you were looking at my collar, I'd mistake you for looking at my tits and I'd slap you twice across the face and blow my rape whistle. I'd explain you were a pervert and your career would be over. But what you didn't know, was that I knew you weren't a pervert. But I did this for the story. Because only you and I would know the truth. But it was my word against yours and this would be another secret that I would keep to myself. This would be another half an hour of silence in another shrinks office. But you'd be court ordered to talk about "your little obcession" to keep you out of jail. And you'd make up a lie, and start to believe it. And then at the end of this whole thing, I'd be the only one that knew the truth.