Would you write me an epitaph?

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I know you're sick of me, redundant,stupid, childish me.  I know you don't believe me,and kicking out my mother and sisteris a-okay with you,but that's not how familyworks.  You don't "mesh" with my demonsbecause you think there's nothing there,when you just don't see how big it really is.  When I try to coax nice words from you,I'm not needy, I'm scared and need to hear those things.  When I say, No one will ever fall in love with me, I want you to say otherwise and hold me close.  No prince charming will save me, but I need a best friend. I need someone to say, I've got your back, not, Stop looking back.  I know you're sick of me, I can hear it in your voice. The way you say you're tiredor you tire. My problems are as old as how you speak,like the bones of the earthcracked,burning,and aching beneath the surface. And all you can do it get back to those etching scarsis to say you "tire".  You're not the only one who knew someone suicidal.The only difference is that I didn't go through with it. But if I did, would someone tattoo an epitaphfor me on their arm?Would they lean over the gaping maw of my grave and say, "She was so beautiful."  And you. When you ask why I never wear short sleeves,I can't say, Because all my scars and wounds are on my shoulders. When you say, I look like a meth addict,you think that's just peachy, just fine. When you say, What you just said was rehearsed,I don't need your approval. I know it was.  I'm used to these ant bites while they sleep beneath the earthwinter, spring, It's ant bites,they get in through the cracks inthe wall of my heart where they wreak havoclike termites on strong oak,eaten away to dust and rot.  So I know that you're sick of me. You're happier with someone I thought was for me,but in the end,yet again, I'm the ugly sister watching Cinderellaescape to the ball. 

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