I hate remembering the little things. Hate remembering what it felt like to sit alone at lunch, hate remembering that gut wrenching feeling you got when they tell you you aren’t good enough, hate how all of a sudden I realize I haven’t changed at all and I’m still the little girl crying in my room because no one ever “saved me a spot at the lunch table” and hate realizing the problems never go away they just get worst. All of a sudden it’s not just a “spot at the lunch table” but big things, huge things, wondering if it would be right to die this young . Wondering if it would be wrong.
—  No one cared then, no one cares now.