Dear Kaelie, (what I really wanted to say, but didn't have the guts)

I'm sorry I'm weak and that I can't say it in real life. I'm stupid like that. But really, what I've been trying to tell you for the 40 minutes we've been talking is, "remember the last time I went over your house? yeah, the day before that, I cut myself."

But I can't tell you that, because the words won't come out. I'll start crying. I'm hiding it beneath layers of my pride. I think you know that I did it, but I can't tell you. Ugh, Kaelie. It hurts really bad. You're sleeping now. I'm going to go upstairs, pee, and cry, and type this.

I couldn't think upstairs.

I can't even remember why I cut myself. My mom fell or something...or maybe I just felt lonely. I wanted attention? I don't know. I was going to tell you that I did it that night I went over, but I couldn't. And it's weird that I still can't. I don't know if I'll be able to tell anyone, really.

It really hurts.