I've made up my mind. I'm going to leave you.

It makes me sick when you lie to me and tell me that you didn't mean to.

I'm tired of sobbing behind closed doors. I'm tired of picking myself off the bathroom floor.

You scare me so much, even though that's not what you want.

But how do you expect me not to fear you when I'm left alone to count these scars?

When we kiss, it's still the same.

But I'm done with us.

I'm done with playing this game.