Hi. I’m okay. I’m not doing so good. I’ve been better. I... I’m sad. I’m sad.

God, I’ve

never felt so sad before. There’s a lump in my chest, a big rock. A big rock that’s in a

blender at the same time. Spinning around. Crumbling. Or maybe it’s a lump of flesh, and

there’s a hand inside me at the same time. One of those hands from trick or treat trick

candy bowl on Halloween. With claws. A big hand with claws. And it’s tearing

everything up.

Make it stop.

Please.

I don’t like this, I don’t want this, I don't, take it back! Please!

I want to take the rock out. The blender. The Halloween hand. Whatever it is.

Take it out and throw it. Far away. Maybe to China. Or Mars would be even better. Far

away from me. I don’t want that. I don’t. I hate it!

My eyes are on fire. They burn and sting so bad. I feel like I have mini pineapples

for eyes, and blinking hurts because they’re so spikey. My eyelids are going to get

blisters, but so is the ground of my nose. I thought Charmin toilet paper was supposed to

be extra soft. The red cartoon bears from the commercials lied. Or at least they hid the

effects of wiping your nose a hundred times. Good marketing strategy; now I have a rash.

I want to throw up. I want to vomit everything I feel. I want to get rid of the

pineapples and big rock and the claws. I want to take it out and flush it away to a place I

don’t know and don’t care about. Then I’ll feel better.

I want to wake now, now, now. When am I going to wake up? So I can check my

phone. And I’ll see you’re “good morning,” and I’ll say “I hope you have a good day
today.” I don’t want to see this block of text anymore. I’ve read your message so many

times. Too many times. I don’t like it. I don’t want it. Please take it back.

I have a poem about you in my phone that I’ve been working on for your

birthday, but I think I’ll keep it to myself. You always loved my poems, even though

they’re not very good. I wish I could write you more. I’d write you one everyday if you’ll

promise to love me forever. But that won’t be necessary. I know you can’t.

I’m sad, and I’m not okay, but I was told I will be. Once I become a surgeon, I

will, and I’ll use their fancy knives and carve out my chest like a pumpkin. I’ll carve out

my pineapple eyes too. Then I’ll feel better, and I won’t have to write poems anymore.