Let's just leave it at I hate you.

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Umm. I'm sort of messed up sometimes. Not with drinking or drugs or anything like that. It's just...life. And I wish it would end.

Is that a bad thing?

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And the war was over.
And it had never been.
And he stood on the bridge alone.

Clutched in her fingers was a stone.
Down beside her was the glass.
In front of her was the stick.
And sticks.

So she put down the stone and laid it to rest; it had died.
And she picked up the glass; it had come back alive.
And the wood she carved lay as silent as she had been when she madly hacked away at it.
Forming the point.

And the sticks they were the bridge.
That lead her into freedom.
That lead her into misery.

And still, no one knew.