I'm going to be sixteen in a month [minus a couple of days]. I still feel eight.
There isn't so much to say, except that I am an accident. I am that girl you sometimes talk to because she's there. You know the type. The one that you're nice to because she seems sad somehow; the one that you don't really intend on becoming friends with. You try to keep your distance from her until one day, she just happens to be around when you're having some problems. You end up talking to her, but you don't really want to. In the middle of your sentence about how fucked up your life is and how much you want to die, you pause for a moment and think to yourself Why am I telling her this?, but by then it is too late.
And after you've told her your problems, she thinks for a while, and offers insight, or advice, or a story to make you feel less alone. So you keep coming back. You don't really know why, I mean, you don't like her or anything. She's just sort of... convenient.
One of those days, she starts to open up to you, too, because she is stupid and thinks you might care. You don't. In the back of your head you're still going This wasn't supposed to happen and she's telling you she's in tears. You get angry. This was a mistake. This wasn't supposed to happen. You yell at her, because obviously, it's all her fault.
In a day or two you come back, because she's the only one that will still listen. She never did have the heart to turn anyone away.
I am the biggest mistake anybody could ever make.