Black Holes That I Call Home

I don’t want to do this anymore.  Feeling like this is worse than feeling nothing.  I want out so badly, but I can’t because I don’t want other people to feel upset.  But I still want to die.  Does that make me selfish?  I don’t know.  I don’t really know anything anymore.  In class, we played Jeopardy, but the questions were about fellow classmates.  Y’know, end-of-year bullshit to waste what’s left of our time.  I remember seeing the answer to the question about me; the board said, “Who is Aurelia?” That’s a great question, and if it’s ever on one of my finals I won’t know the answer.  I used to know who I was and what I wanted, but now, all I feel is numb and empty and confused.  I long to be ripped apart, bloody and beautiful.  I gave my blades to my Uncle a while back, so I have no distractions from this.  There’s this one chant constantly replaying in my head: IhatemylifeIhatemylifeIhatemylifeIhatemylifeIhatemylifeIhatemylife…