you were not even 13 years old when you planned your suicide. you were not even 15 years old when you seriously attempted your suicide.
i am here to tell you, younger me, that i am glad you are still around.
think about your mama. what would she feel like in this very moment, in these past few weeks when she has felt so low, if you were gone?
you were practically still a baby when someone touched you, a bad touch, a touch you didn’t like or want, and it made you feel so tainted.
listen to me. that is not what boys do when they like you. that was not your fault.
oh, my sweet little self, stop your crying. i know it hurts to see his face in the halls at school even to this day, but soon you’ll never go back there. you’ll never see him again.
you busted blood vessels in your knuckles with your teeth, scarred your skin thousands of times, ripped your hair until you had bald patches. you have been screamed at, spat at, hit, hurt, but you are still here.
you are still here.
you’ve got to stay, even when you don’t feel like you have anywhere you belong.