I tried to kill myself.

So my family sent me to a therapist. She's nice, pretty, scarless and she talks to me as if she understands what I'm going through. But she doesn't, she's just a girl who gets paid to listen to people talk. I don't say a word.

She makes me write in this notebook, persuades me to write down the things I shouldn't say out loud.

And I feel my hand shake as Atlantic screams at me to stop.

I should.

But I can't because with every word I write, it gets warmer.