The Difference

The Difference

It’s a cold winter night
The wind hollers in the distance
A girl sits on her bed
A razor in one hand
Holds up her bleeding wrist
She screams to the cold winter’s night
“I hate you, I love you”
“What’s the difference?”

She pulls out something
A blue telecaster guitar
Wipes her bloody hands on her jeans
Adjusts her fingers and begins to play
A soft, slow, painful tune
As she sings to the cold winter’s night
“I hate you, I love you”
“What’s the difference?”

She walks to the piano
Sits down on the black leather
Rests her hand on the ivory pieces
She pounds the keys boredly
A dark, painful melody
As she says to the cold winter’s night
“I hate you, I love you”
“What’s the difference?”

She turns on her computer
Waits for the screen to load
Sits on her old wooden chair
The keys click as she heads to a site
The noise in it’s self, a depressing tune
As she types to the cold winter’s night
“I hate you, I love you”
“What’s the difference?”

She climbs into bed
Grabs her diary and a pen
Looks through the old pages
The sound of the unheard pain wails silently
She flips to an unused page
She writes to the cold winter’s night
“I hate you, I love you”
“What’s the difference?”

She puts away her razor
Unplugs her guitar
Shuts off her computer
Closes her diary
And she finally knows
“The difference is that I hate this feeling”
“Of knowing I’m alone and that he doesn’t love me”
“But I still love him, ant it’s killing me”

She shuts off her light
Closes her eyes
Tries to sleep but can’t
Words of torture enter her mind
Painful memories meddle with her sanity
She whispers to the cold winter’s night
“I hate you, I love you”
“But I know the difference”