He's in love with the sappy "life-is-good" me. And the thing is, the "life-is-good" me just isn't me. I don't want to lose him, but I don't want to hold him down. And I'm numb to his kisses. He feels this void, but I lie to him and say I'm fine. I vomit in his bathroom. I cry in his bed. I think about his knife sitting on the counter, and the calming sensation of mettle slitting flesh when all else is numbing and cold. But as soon as he walks through a door or wraps his arms around me, I'm all smiles and crude humor again. This mask is getting heavy.

"Breakfast?"she asks, a fake smile on her face. I know she sees through me. "Not hungry." She glares at me. "I don't care, you have to eat." No I don't. I don't have to but I do anyway, to please her. The cold oatmeal settles, a hard lump in my stomach. I drink my glass of sour OJ. They don't let me drink coffee anymore. Lazily I pull my clothes, mostly black, over my head, my legs. Cover myself in my triple-layered-sea-of-black safety-net. I pull the comb through my tangled hair wreaking or raspberry. I slather my eyes in dark shadows, and toss the unfinished history essay into my messenger bag. My parents burn me with their eyes as I head for the door. I'm late again. "Bye" I groan. "Love you!" my dad shouts after me. I don't answer.