In the darkness of the dawn.

I was born, seventeen years ago, in a white room. I came out of my mother's womb fully naked, wet in blood. I was born without speech, except for some wails that I have no idea of what it was or what it was for. I was born without the proper thinking, careless, carefree. I was born, taken out from in between my mother's legs, a time of great pain.

Now I am seventeen, and no matter how bright things appear, darkness surrounds me. Now I am fully clothed, barely wet. Now I can speak three or four languages, always in the best attempt to understand what I was listening or saying. Now I can ponder, though anxious, insecure. Now I'm searching what was between one's legs, a time of great pleasure.

Why don't you know?

I have this hateful feeling. I feel it everytime this certain person comes around. Right now we won't speak to each other. I wouldn't even care turning my head to see you. I wouldn't even try to open my mouth and say a word to you. I wouldn't care batting an eyelash on your new shirt. I wouldn't care.

It's just that I couldn't help hiding in my room crying.

I feel like I'm such a big dork.

I am. I hate being that.

IT just ain't me. Or it's not what I wanted myself to be.

I hate it.

I hate your eyes. I hate your hair. I hate your lips. I hate your cheeks - your cratered cheeks, remember. I hate you ears. I hate your neck, and the necklace you wear it with. I hate you, I guess.

But that doesn't mean that I'm over you. I do wish I was. Sometimes I think I am. But everytime I tell myself I'm over you I become more convinced that I'm not.

We're not friends. Who were you fooling, then? How come you can still say we were? There's no us. There's no friendship.

Nothing. Not anymore.

I know you know that I keep on screwing it up. But I wish you realized that you're not the world. I realized that earlier on the way. You're not the world. If something is discouraging, it is. I as a friend wouldn't care turning a discouragement into its opposite. Life isn't that way. I'm grown with that fact. You made me believe it.

Thank you for not caring. That's just all I needed to counteract what I wanted. I may keep on wanting you to care about me but it's not it. It won't be real. It won't matter.

Perhaps as to others I may say 'later', with you I'd be glad to say 'goodbye'.