Miyu's Random Crayola: She hates me.

She hates me.
I spilled my darkest secret
And she hates me for it.
It's not my fault.
I thought I could trust her.
All she does is hate me.
She has a right to.
It's not morally right for me to do this.
But all she does is hate me.
She won't talk to me.
She's running off with the girl we all swore that we hated.
She thinks I'm trying to steal him.
Believe me, I'm not.
It sucks.
She was my best friend.
And now she hates me.
I don't understand.
As I sit here and try to wipe the tears off the keyboard
I also try to understand
Why she hates me like this.
All I did was tell her what I never intended to say.
Now everyone else knows
Because I'm such an idiot.
She avoids me.
She glares when she thinks I'm not looking.
I try to think of what I did wrong
But the answer just won't come.
As I head off to bed tonight
It'll bug me
The tears will come again
And I'll drift away
And suscept to the dreams
With her okay with what I've done
And him loving me for who I am
She's with someone else.
It's not right to think like this
But it's not my fault.
Dreams are a neccessary part of feeling heartbroken.
One thing that I know
Suicide is a sin
But still that stupid little thought,
"Will they miss me?"
Crosses my mind more than once
I don't have anyone to talk to
Because she won't listen
Because she hates me.
I think I should see a shrink
But I really hate psychology
What's the point of answering questions with questions?
There is no point.
It's dumb.
This whole thing.
It just irks the crap out of me.
It makes me want to shout of the rooftops,
(No, it's not cliche)
"Does anyone care about me?
Am I just someone that you hang out with when no one is there?
Do you guys actually consider me a friend?
Do I have to sit at home all the time
Because I have no where to go with anyone?"
I hate these feeling
Of abandonment
My only friend
Is my keyboard
And my dad's guitar.
I write crappy songs
And crappy love poetry
Even though that's the guy's job.
My wastebasket is overflowing
With crumpled up pieces of paper
About how much I love him.
Who knew
That so much love could be hidden in wrinkles of paper?
Suicide is a sin.
But it seems that that's hard to remember
At times like this.
She
Hates
Me.