You can't drink and take drugs and lie and cheat and leave me and do whatever the fuck you do and then lose your shit when I do one stupid thing. Just one. It's not as bad as what you've been doing. Nowhere near as bad. I know that I can stop. I know that I can handle it and manage it and all that stuff. But you? You can't handle alcohol, and you can't handle drugs, and I know for a fact that you can't handle Bert.

You cannot blame me for being hurt. You cannot blame me for wanting to direct the pain somewhere else. You cannot blame me for returning to old habits. You did it.

You're just a fucking hypocrite, Gerard. You yelled at me when you saw me, yet you flipped out when I turned it back on you. I am so done. I wanted to do something to make it better, just for a little while, and you ruined that. In a flash of red hair and fury, you just took my blades and flushed them. "I refuse to let you hurt yourself this way." You said. "You're not doing this." I threatened to pour your alcohol away, and you told me I was being ridiculous. Isn't that the same thing?

I don't know how long this has been going on for, Gerard, but I'm not getting through to you. Can't you tell by how messy my handwriting is that my hand is shaking? Can't you tell by the way the ink has smudged that I'm crying? My thighs sting but it's not helping. I'm just crying harder. Nothing is going right anymore.

Is it me? Have I done this to you? I don't want to have but have I? Please tell me, Gerard. Please tell me why this is happening.

"You stupid, pathetic little shit." That's what you screamed at me today. Don't you realise how that made me feel? "You're better than this. You're just making yourself weak."

Maybe I want to feel weak. Maybe I want to do this. Maybe, just maybe, I don't want to hurt anymore. You cannot tell me what to do, Gerard Way. You cannot tell me that what I'm doing is wrong, because you're just being a hypocrite.

And next time Bert comes over, I'm letting him in, because I want to know what he wants from you.

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