Hello Real World. I appear to be meeting you prematurely. Already you’ve crushed me in your ruthless grip, squeezing me until I’m gasping for air that just won’t come. You have given me hope but then you tore it away. The only thing I have is slipping from my numb fingers. I might as well be dead, I will be soon enough anyway.

Stop please. It’s getting really difficult to breathe. And this uncontrollable shaking is quite uncomfortable. Then there’s this feeling in my stomach, the twisting and pulling, like I’m about to lose everything I’ve eaten. I’ve cried so much I think I’ve run out of tears.

You really aren’t very friendly, I see why everyone complains about you. No matter how much I beg and plead, you refuse to let go. You refuse to let me breathe, and to let me keep the contents of my stomach. You refuse to look upon me with a pitiful eye, to look upon the little girl, lost and scared, clutching onto familiarity. Clutching onto the safe feeling of love and happiness. You’re trying to take it away, but the little girl can’t let go. I can’t let go.

Once that familiarity is gone, that rope tied to my waist breaks, I’ll fall. I may not look like I’m falling, but I will. Internally at least. Behind the potentially hopeful smiles, that little girl will be lost inside of herself. She’ll be slipping further and further into the darkness until she finds the bottom. And when she hits, she’ll break just like that rope.

Bones will snap like the hope that you tore away. Blood will spill like the tears she tried so hard to fight. The sad record spinning in her head will shatter like the dreams she cherished so dearly. And when you finally let her go, to try to save her sorry soul, it will be too late. You’ll try to let her breathe easily, to stop squeezing her chest. You’ll take the knife out of her heart, and you’ll see she’s already gone. I hate you, Real World.