Dear Olivia,

We went back home to visit this week. I didn't know what to do with myself.

It was like everyone was either asking me fifty questions, or they were busy feeling fucking sorry for me.

Why the hell are they feeling sorry for me when they should be feeling sorry for you? You're the one who's dead god dammit!

Do they not see who deserves their pity?

This is all my fault, isn't it?

There was a razor in Grandma's bathroom, I guess she forgot to hide it.

Guess she didn't think I'd be this fucked up.

I picked it up and just stared at it, wondering what it would feel like.

You did it.

What would it feel like to me?

How much would it hurt to die?

Would there be a lot of blood?

I couldn't do it.

I put it down like it would fucking burn me and walked away.

Because I'm not strong enough to own up and face the consequences of my actions.