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Pity to waste Pity on someone so undeserving

I should clarify, in order to save you from wasting the worst of your sentiments upon the idea of me.  Save your pity for a dying dog or a sobbing drunk. A backhanded bastard child of sympathy; I have no use for you to paint me as a matchstick girl. Paint me a celebrity or a millionaire; not an orphan struck with whooping cough.

While the majority of what I write tends to be dour and melancholic, needlessly complicated, melodramatic and glib, you can't assume that I am as woe-begone and hopeless as previous verses.

Think of it; I'd be dead or in a mental hospital if everything I wrote were true to my condition as a girl.

I write these things because they need to be released. It's not enough to have them written; they must speak to someone, even if they are wholly misunderstood.  It's a process that begins with the purest narcissism  and ends with a strange will towards empathy.

 Toxic thoughts and unpleasant emotions shouldn't stew away inside of a person; that's surely poison. Instead of talking to a stranger to pay them for their unwavering attention several hours a week, or bore friends to tears with my luxurious issues, or blame my parents because that's the easiest thing to do, I'd rather try to make something someone else can empathize with. I'd rather make the subject of my ills ambiguous to a certain point, so that one find themselves weaving their experience into my own. And perhaps there is solace for them to take; perhaps I have found the words that they were looking for and gave their heavy heart a chance to speak. That is the only altruistic possibility, if it exists at all.

Mind you, I perpetuate my romantical contradictions because I don't want to quit fighting myself quite yet. The conflict bears some fruit of introspection, despite anxious debate.

Though I could settle down and find myself what people think I'm looking for, but things aren't nearly as bad as the metaphors make them out to be.

Anyway, nobody wants to hear about how much happier you are than them.

I certainly don't.


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'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

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Hope had left the gun on the table.

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