I know what you’re doing.
I know what you’re doing, and I need you to stop. We need you to stop. I see you scripting your self-fulfilling prophecies and pasting them on the wall, both of us watching as they burn slowly and fill your room with ash. I see you waking up every morning to your own new version of prison, of hell, and you’re like a writer resigned to death row, asking for the pages upon which you sign not your admission of guilt, not your embarrassed apology, not even your suicide note – you just ask to sign your last goodbye. I want to speak to you, to show you that this works, to show you that it can be done and that even if it can’t we have to try, but you won’t see me. You have the right, you say. To not see me.
Well, fine. You have the right to not see me. And you have the right to die. But you don’t have the right to drag me down with you.
Open your eyes and start trying. I still believe in you – even if you don’t.