Dear You,

I'm writing to you a second time today.

They made fun of the very things I do. When I have to. They joked and they laughed and I died and died and died.

How could they do that? How could they be so cruel?

They don't understand how much they hurt me.

And there was nothing I could do but laugh along. The bigger my smile, the louder my laugh, the more they had ripped me to shreds.

I am nothing but a torn piece of paper. Nowhere to go.

I think I shall sleep now. I will write you tomorrow.

Love,

Holly