Wednesday, April 7


(from the archives)

Jamison,

You know I know. And I know what you'll say: you'll lie, you'll argue, and then you'll turn it around and say that my drugs are self-mutilation, too. That everytime I smoke a cigarette, I'm hurting myself; externalizing "the pain." I'm sorry, J, maybe that's true, but I'm dealing with my shit. I'm clean. You aren't.

I love you. You know that, too. What the fuck am I supposed to do, though? What the fuck am I supposed to do when you lie to my face, and both of us know it's just lies? What do I do when Ryonn calls me in a panic, because you've locked yourself in the bathroom again and he's afraid you're really going to kill yourself this time?

I would give up my life if I thought it would fix things for you. We all would. I just don't know what to say to you anymore. Give me a clue, Julian. Tell me what you need. Tell me what it will take to make you eat again, to make you stop hurting yourself, to make you stop hating yourself. Your wish is my command.

Con amor,
T.S.

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