Because it may seem like a small role now, but it matters. In the end, everything matters.

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.

Don't give up on me now. I'm sorry. I guess that's an odd thing to say. Because isn't that what I'm doing? Giving up?

Yes, it feels great to plan your life when you believe everything can turn out fine. But what about when you're shown, again and again, how little control you have over anything? No matter what I do to try to fix my future, it doesn't work.

Everything...affects everything

But sometimes there’s nothing left to do but move on.

I'm listening to someone give up. Someone I knew—someone I liked. I'm listening... but still, I'm too late.