Hate me like I hate me.

Once my mom was moved out and into her own apartment, I was shuttled back and forth between parents. I had only a handful of friends (actually probably less). Michelle and Anthony were my best friends, but Michelle was the best at the time. I've known her since kindergarten, and she was my everything at this point. I felt she was all I really had.

I don't remember the intimate details of it all, it's not really that important now, but we got in a fight. It was probably a stupid fight but it was one of those 'I'm not your friend anymore' fights.

I went home and wanted to cry on my daddy's shoulder, but he was burning some steam off jogging on the treadmill in his bedroom. He had the music blaring and I couldn't even hear myself think.

Sobbing hysterically, I went into the kitchen and grabbed one of the knives out of the knife block. I fell to the floor and sat there looking up at the ceiling. I started coming in and out of reality as I drug the knife across my inner forearms. It hurt, but I didn't recognize the pain. I couldn't acknowledge it. I was numb. I thought I deserved the pain.

I went to school the next day wearing a long sleeved shirt to cover the gashes that I had dug into my arm with that dull knife. I still have the scars to remind me of that day.