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It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

It’s not that I don’t love you.  (via extrasad)
Why does any 17-year-old guy want to kill themselves? A chick of course! I thought she was the be and end all of everything and when you are that age, those emotions won’t let you fucking consider reality. I was in a really, really painful place. I put 31 slashes on my arm and I took a bottle of pills and a friend found me and took me to hospital. Luckily the cuts weren’t too deep but I still have the scars. They pumped my stomach, which was a completely fucking horrific experience, one that I don’t wish on anyone. They make you drink this stuff which tastes like maple syrup, which is why I can’t eat pancakes for the rest of my life, that induces you to vomit uncontrollably. You then spew up everything you have eaten for the past week and then they give you this sh*t which tastes like liquid charcoal to calm your stomach down again.
Corey Taylor when asked why he wanted to kill himself. (via coreytaylorworld)
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