Scared

Sometimes I want to take a knife. But then I would get caught. Some one is always out there, in the kitchen, the living room. There’s always someone here. And I hate that. I hate having someone home 24/7. I can’t get a knife, can’t keep a diary, can’t keep a secret, can’t cry in peace, can’t sleep in peace, can do school work in peace, can’t procrastinate and play games on my iPad (iPad kid vibes, yes I know) in peace, can’t even draw in peace because someone is always watching. Someone is always there, and when they’re not, I fear they’ll return. When I feel brave enough to take a knife, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t get rid of the pain, the regret, the loss. The loss of everything. A childhood. A household without turmoil. A loss of the ability to not cry every day. I don’t want to cry. I want to be happy. But things always happen. Things that people will never understand. Fights always happen. A good day can turn into a bad day in a snap.