December 15, 2008
By Jessi O'Canna, Littleton, CO

It was like a jail, a prison, a dungeon. I was trapped. Searching for a way out. I needed out. Let me out I said.

My room is my prision she writes. She writes instead of cuts. She lives instead of kills. She dreams to stay alive. Each word hurts so much. Who knew that words could hurt so much. I always thought as a little kid...she writes that it was physical. That sticks and stones may break my bones but WORDS will never hurt me.

She continues to write. Everything I am is because of this family. I live for my friends; not my family. U could honostly care less. This house is no longer home, it is just a house. They said they would support me no matter what I choose to do. I don't understand why wanting to work for something different is so bad. I guess I'm done dreaming, but they always told me that if you belive you will do it you will succede at it. I give up. So close to the edge; they keep pushing me. Soon I'll just trip and fall off.

I remeber sitting on daddy's shoulders

The author's comments:
Tell me if you like it, best one yet?

p.s im not suicidal. I just like to write

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