I remembered. A party the night before, tall man with black hair and an old car that smelled permanently of smoke. I had climbed over you in the drivers seat and kissed you so hard, I felt I could crush your jaw. I controlled you.

Two days earlier I had asked my sister to give me a good reason to live. She had said �mom�, closed her eyes and rocked back and forth. My tears were like a liquid poison that could hit your skin caustic, burn holes through your flesh so I could see your anatomy.

When my breath hits the air, I am already moving quickly to the car. How I drove here, I don�t know. I guess I drove drunk or he drove my car. I didn�t care. I needed breakfast, drove to a small restaurant and cried in the booth.

We are leading to my suicide. You know that, don�t you? I offered as confession in therapy. My therapist has her hair pulled back tightly, I want to see lines of worry but she stays straight faced. She asked what happened this week that made me want to die. Truthfully, I say, this is how I�ve felt every week. I cry but there isn�t a reason for it this time. She just crosses her legs and coldly looks at her watch. I go home and look for scissors. There aren�t any, they�ve all been moved by friends or family. I feel drunk, I stumble around in the dark, shaking and pretending I�m in some fabulous film.

The phone had been knocked off the hook since yesterday, the automated operator message echoing through the hallway. I pick it up and throw it against the wall, the battery hanging out by a multicolored cord. I don�t care about hearing from anyone anyway. I shut my finger in the bedroom door and collapse on the bed. I am an idiot, mellow dramatic and needing someone to slap me around and straighten me out. I�m moaning, howling, crying so loud the neighbors hit the wall. I am drowning in salty mucus.

Everyone always asks what�s wrong. I have no answer. I use my ab roller for two hours until I can�t walk. I feel better when I look at my body in the mirror. I promise myself that if I work out every day for a week, I will be allowed to cut. I know I can�t hold to such a promise. I cut anyway, for the sheer disappointment of what I can�t pull through on doing.

I sleep around so I can have a title. Being a slut is better than being a nobody, being crazy is better than being nothing. Don�t ever ask why. My heart got broken when I was thirteen and it never healed. Now I just exist to scare you, make you care so I can disappoint you badly when you figure out I can�t change. You bring the car and I�ll bring the drug money. If we never care, no one can hurt us.