I am Jack's broken heart

When I was little my mom and I got in a fight. I was so furious that I packed my runaway bag. It was a purple Lisa Frank bag with a pink bear who held a paintbrush. The bag itself was insignificant really. It contained a Spice Girls CD, my favorite Barbie, a blanket, some crayons, some paper and my will, meaning who I intended to leave the rest of my stuff with. Sensible, I know. It lasted 3 moves. But when we were kicked out of our house and had to decide what was important to bring, I thought I would never need it. So I left it there under the bed.

I was wrong. I would do anything to have that bag now. My mom and I had a fight last night because I shoveled the walkway incorrectly. No, I am not kidding. She came home, opened the door and started talking about how I am unmotivated and only ever do things half way. So we had a fight. This morning she told me that she didn't like me. My mom is the most beautiful person I've ever met. She's gorgeous. She's had a really hard life and managed to still move on. She raised me by herself and taught me almost everything I know. And... she doesn't like me.

"I can't do this anymore," she said to me. "I can't keep pulling people through life." Okay. Then don't. Because I can't do this anymore, either. I can't keep convincing myself that she does. So I'm done. And I dont know if that means that I completely rebel and go and get a tattoo and smoke a lot of pot or if that means I go through life head down, shut up. Either way I'll be miserable so who the fuck cares?

I bend really far. But I am human and I break too.
I am broken. I am Jack's broken heart.

16 months and I am gone.