XCIII. Not you, who doesn't wanna talk. It's not yours to read. That moment is yours, this one is all mine. I don't have anything else to share with you.

   I can't anymore.

  I haven't got 10 years left in me.

  I just can't, this is torture

  To never finding a way to make it right

  To always miss that for which I care the most

  Trying to pin the flaw

  Is it fucking AuDHD? ADHD + lutheal fase? I hear it gets nasty, but my dumbass hormone gargler can only recently track this whole shitshow of a new oscillation. And how fucking dare you, you have it so much easier to control yourelf, you arrogant self-exiled prince, it's not a fucking character flaw, it still doesn't need more pressure to perform better, it needs reception, it needs refuge, you don't know how to give it. Is it PMS ganged up with this neverending nightmare despite everything I've got to give? I think she's hinting it could be the more passive, implosive kind of borderline disorder, from trauma, unlike my mother's. And what good does it make, the tag? Some pity? Being even more innapropriate to relate with? Another whole world to analyze and deal with? Medication to conform? For my whole life? It's not a reason to let you know, it's just another reason to remove myself. You, that I love the most, I now also fucking hate. And I can't have it, I don't have it in me. It's torture. I don't want to. I don't want it. I'll be going. I'll make sure you get your things. Mine will burn, no one of you get to touch me anymore.

  Do not reach me or send someone else to do it, you forfeited the right to. Go on, half alive, full of disdain, you'll get to play my victim one last time. That's my last act of service to you.