They called me faggot, and thought there were better then me. They thought they could laugh at me because I’m different. I use to cry all the time . . . but I don’t anymore. I don’t feel sad, I don’t feel anything anymore. I like it better this way, the num empty feeling is better then being sad all the time.
I use to think what I was doing is wrong, but it’s so easy now. The Feel of blood running down my face doesn’t bother me anymore. There trembling hand griping for anything they think can save them. The look of terror in there eyes . . . I . . . I kind of like it. It gratifies something inside of me, something dark, something evil.