Maybe I overthink things. I can’t focus. My head hurts. Too many drugs. I want to live in a world where I don’t have to take drugs to feel something, hide a panic attack every single fucking day of my life, and not have to care what others think of me. Not put forward this bubbly yellow goodie goodie everyone thinks I am. That had to switch to online school because she was in and out of the hospital every other week. Depression, anxiety, P.T.S.D. ,insomnia ,anorexia, fucking daddy issues. All things that exist. And never seem real until they have happened to you. I don’t want to be the anorexic girl. Yet… Here we are. Slumped over the toilet because I ate a fucking granola bar. I don’t wanna go back to the hospital. I’ve already seen and done everything they have to offer and I don’t wanna go back. Yet I find myself slitting my wrists and taking too many pills, tying nooses just for fun and juggling knives. Why do I crave the sting of a fresh tear on my skin? Why do I enjoy “accidentally” burning myself on the flame? Why can’t I just feel normal emotions? Why am I stuck walking a tightrope at night? While everyone else is asleep I ponder on what existence is all about. Every thought I hide intensifies inside my head. me me me me me me me me. God i’m so fucking annoying. I know perfection is not achievable, yet I strive for it anyway. It’s kind of silly because I’m far from perfect, or even regular. I wouldn’t want to be around me. So why do you? Why does it feel like all I am is a fuck up, inside and out? Why does it feel like everyone hates me? Maybe its because they do. Why is it that every time I look in the mirror all I want to do is smash my head against it? Why is it every time I speak I always find a way to hate every line of it? Yet, every time i speak you say, “I love you”. And every time I look into your eyes you tell me how beautiful you think I am. But every time it feels like the worst kind of lie. Why do I feel like all you do is humor me. Like some kind of sick joke you can end whenever it’s not funny anymore, but I know all the emotions you have are genuine. At least I think they are. So why does it seem so impossible for someone to love a dying thing? I’ve tried to move on, by myself, like it’s always been, but every time I try and picture myself in the future I can’t picture it at all, because I don’t wanna live past 16. After you, I can’t go back to how things used to be, because you showed me what being loved feels like. And how cold it was to be on my own. Or maybe I just think I did, love you that is. Maybe this is all in my head, I hope it is. I guess I will just always be the girl who is always spaced out. Can’t wait for death.