She was that kind of person difficult to forget.

When all the other girls had began to shave their legs and wear miniskirts, experimenting with eyeliner and depleting 'cooties' from their vocabulary, she was there, and she was different. Her green Chuck Taylors matched the rare specks in her honey eyes, and her PRODUCT(RED) iPod went together wonderfully with the scars she was miserably responsible for.

I loved her. 'Loved' in the past tense because she is incapable of letting go when need be, and couldn't bear it. So she finally let it go. Let it all go.

But she had love written all over her. In actuality, in the literal form. Her mindset told her that if she Sharpie'd it enough on her wrists and the backs of her knees it would come true. That if she went searching for it and saw every man as if he was the very man she would ultimately give in to under the altar, she would succeed.

She wanted to lay upon herself the most beautiful things to encourage the illusion that she was beautiful. But for now, she was ugly.

The last time I spoke to her she told me she understood. She shook her hair into her face, pulled it back, and said that she understood, more to herself than to me. To be brutally honest, I thought she was ludicrous and no matter what she was understanding, I sure as hell didn't.

I didn't like being honest. She found it a moral right to give you her truthful opinion of you because she found it YOUR moral right to know it.

The first time she so blatantly rejected me I was proud of her.

I was always proud of her.

It's been 1 year, 6 months, and 23 days since she killed herself.

Her note was short. Short and sweet, like herself.

In it she said that she hoped I would understand and not be mad at her.

And that she loved me, and sincerely wished for me to be capable of letting go, one day.

Our similarities give me goosebumps.

1 year, 6 months, and 23 days.

Tonight will be the 1139th night I cry myself to sleep,

because I still do not understand.