words. like machine guns firing in the background of my head and i feel my skull slowly cave in under the pressure of knowing that you know i exist and my fingers slam into the keyboard like the punches i can’t bring myself to throw and if i just slam hard enough it’ll put the fire in my head out. out. out. please put it out. out. out. as in get this monster out of my head and get these words out of my head because you’re in my head and at this point, there’s probably not much i can do about it. and i know people can be assholes but i can’t believe it. because if you can be wrong how do i know i’m not wrong? because if you can be right how do i know i’m worth it? and i know i’m supposed to be strong. and i know i’m supposed to keep fighting. and i know i’m not supposed to shatter at your fists like a ceramic doll but i am. i am. i am. and i can’t hold myself together because my heart is not your shooting range but my heart kind of is your shooting range. but my heart is the kind of city they show in dystopian movies. with the vines, growing around the still-standing skeletons of buildings because somehow my head keeps surviving every time i write it obituaries. because when i was twelve, i don’t know why exactly, but i think there’s still a document on my onedrive labelled read this if i die. and somehow, i’m still alive, but honestly sometimes i don’t even know why. because my heart is your shooting range and i bet you’re laughing. because you got me. got me right on target because to you, this is a game, right? this is a game, and because it’s a game you don’t even have to feel anything. don’t have to take responsibility. don’t have to care about the girl crying in the corner as my heart floods itself over. but i’m just a girl, right? just a kid, right? just someone you can brush off. someone you can roll your eyes at. i’m just another kid, who buried herself a little too deep in her head. another kid, who shoved her heart right out in the open. not realizing what we do in this world to each other’s emotions.
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