Letters for Wounds

See me at my worst.
I am broken. A disaster.
There are days, I admit, that my hair gets a little greasy. I eat enough so that the idea that I'm a monster isn't real any longer. The 40 pounds I'd gained weren't to throw at you like it was your doing. I swear it.
The doctor said I have problems. He said I don't react well to problems, and the only way to fix that was to take some medicine. Little pills that are supposed to fix how I treat you.
My father told me I wasn't worth his sperm today. My mother seemed like a kind woman, and died one too, I'd like to hope. Everyone says I have her smile. I could never find out because every time I try to smile my teeth get in the way.
Remember when you cut your finger? I do. It was with that sharp knife used for some bread. It was too hard too cut anyway, so I don't blame you. You sure yell a lot when your pinky bleeds. Blood looks like the paint you gave me for christmas. Could I borrow your blood for one of my sketches one time? That would be the best present ever.
I'm supposed to see a doctor for more of these little pills. Their green, like the lakes you took me to feed the ducks once. The memory of it always helps me swallow it more. Like I'm swallowing some of you. One of the effects is supposed to be sleepiness. So far, all I do is lay in my bed thinking of you. Is that what sleepiness is? I sure don't like it.