Version. I hate the one I am becoming. Hate soaks into the softness of my skin and leaves me leaking compassion. Thinking about my sorrows, I feel dumb.

Every day, I wake up just to go back to sleep. I have to stand firm and strong.

An entire system denies my nightmares. That is why I get fevers so often. I am breaking. I am lost. I am full of hate and fight.

Someone help me. Someone call an ambulance.

No one could have prepared me for the nightmares yet to come. I mean, if you could see me, you could hug me. You could have something to hold on to, but I am dissolving in your memory. I am but an outline. I am, I am, I am.

I lick the hate from my wet bedsheets and eat my salt tablets. My friend from Norway keeps writing to me, and I am happy he exists. Hold your memories close to your heart. They are the echoes of the present. They are the bottom of every bottle.

I wish I could write in lowercase, the way his lips form words. I bid my forgiveness farewell and watch it travel through the void around my legs.

And I do not want to die. I do not want to die. I do not want to die.

I am too young to die. I have too many conversations yet to come, too many pictures to take and too much love to make. Despair, blood and food are the essence of life, and yesterday, I thought I was wise.

I hold the truth close to my heart. That is where it is safest. Slowly and with inspiration, I breathe. I am sure that somewhere out there, there must be someone.

Someone.

Anyone.

Why do they not understand me? Why do they not help me? Do they hate me?