Everything seemed good, but I knew it had the potential to be awful.

Maybe it's not as important to you as it was for me, but that's not for you to decide.

I waited a second. Should I? No... but I will.

But I do know which is the least popular. The truth.

You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

I repeat his words in my head. What's going on? What's going on? Oh, well, since you asked, I got a bunch of tapes in the mail today from a girl who killed herself. Apparently, I had something to do with it. I'm not sure what that is, so I was wondering if I could borrow your Walkman to find out. 'Not much,' I say.

Betrayal. It's one of the worst feelings.