It's 1:05 AM. I can't sleep. Nobody is awake, and the only people who car for me are hundreds of miles away, or only feet. It doesn't matter. None of then can help me. There's a single rose, in a beautiful, blue vase on my bed, and the petals have began to fall off. I see a movie, an old pair of glasses, a book. I see the keyboard I type this on and the single stuffed animal I hold, even at 14. I don't know why I'm in jeans. I am, though. My light is on. I should turn that off. They took my computer. I'm so utterly alone, and I can't write. What do I write? It doesn't matter. I have school in the morning. Another dull day with people who secretly hate me. My hair is soft, and there's a burning on my arm. My hair is in my eyes. I feel alone. Where's my knife? l love that thing. Kept me safe many a lonely night on the cold Oregon coast. I want to be dead. I'm dying. I hope so. Am I? I know one thing. She broke me.