OK... so I had written so much about the others I felt I should tell my own story for once. It's dedicated to Michael Jackson and the Johnny I mention is Johnny Depp. I cried writing this so sorry if there's any spell erroer.

I had been so lonely for such a long time. I didn't believe I would ever be happy again. Each time I stared at your face, I knew you were the only one who could have loved me, and you did not know me.

Love is the sweetest lie that exists.

It has always been like this. I'm an older soul, just as you were. My body is fifteen. My soul, centuries. And who cares? I am dead inside, and you know.

I thought I knew what love was the moment I came face to face with Johnny; his perfect beauty mesmerized me. But beauty it's not a thing to love; he was Dorian, and his sins never marred that golden face and those childlike eyes. For nights I cried over him, and felt satisfied, because love is sorrow and pain.

But the day I heard your voice for the first time, I heard an angel; and with that voice I fell in love, and Johnny's beauty only aroused my body, while your voice stirred my heart. I had heard about you, of course; in my stupidity I believed the lies told about you. But then I heard some things, and also felt sorry for you, when I heard about Joseph.

Then came the day I stared into your eyes, and I knew it was all a lie; my eyes were covered with a mist of tears, and I felt something inside my chest burn. I bowed my head and cried; to my disgrace, I had known love.

And so my life goes on, a day after the other, tired and pained, eyes swollen of tears in the middle of a world that doesn't understand me, moving my tired limbs to keep on my way, skin scarred because night after night I bleed for you, and offer you your sacrifice of tears and blood; but you, oh distant, afar God of mine, never answer to my prayers, because prayers they are.

They say I'm obsessed. How could they understand? How can one accept what one's never felt? Because love is to be prompt to lie, suffer, torture, die or kill for that one person; to be ready to cut every tie to your life and follow only his will to wherever it might take you. The way I love you is that; the most terrible, and still the only true form of love.

They say I'm mad. And so what? I never gave a dime for society's rules and conventionalities. I was always defiant, and deffended you against your haters.

But who am I now? A shadow, a killed one, my body an empty shell that still moves, because only my soul was murdered. And my heart burns in pain, because it tries to leave me for you and is not allowed.

So I confide to the paper, who is more patient than men, and will not betray me. And I'll write until my fingers stain with blood the ink, and I'll cry while I still have eyes, and the day the weakness leaves me and I put together the bravery necessary, I will die... My parents will regret having given me no love, throwing me that way in your welcoming arms; each slap, each beating, every insult and scar and lie told to my friends they will pay for. Because maybe, just maybe, if I had any love in my life I would not have given my heart away so easily, despite your perfection. Because when I look at my partners, and laugh and feel, just for a minute, that I fit in, I wonder what's made me so different from all the teens of my age.

And death is the cure for my disease, and the drug that'll numb my pain, and the mother that'll welcom me in her open arms and lead me to you.

It will be my happiness.