Nobody Likes Broken Dolls

She didn’t want to do it anymore. People say that are there for her but when she needs them, they all call her crazy. She isn’t needy. There are times that she just needs a constant. Someone or something that won’t leave. That won’t lie. That won’t hurt. She is depressed. She didn’t want to live. If she died, she would leave her family with all of the bills. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t done it yet. She smokes hoping cancer will get to her and it might be terminal. She drinks to hope for lung or kidney failure. She takes ‘medicine’ trying to make her ‘happy’ but they stopped working. So she takes more. They don’t seem to help her die either.
“You’re life isn’t that bad.”
“Maybe we should put her in an institution,” They whisper.
They don’t understand. During the day, she can surround herself with people to help distract her, but at night she gets eaten alive. All of her worry, and doubt and confusion and panic and frustration and anger. It pulls her apart. Her mind is fried. She screams until she is emotionally numb. And if the screaming doesn’t do the trick, the sharp end will.
She is wreckless on purpose. She is hurting so much, but society asks, “Why?”
Her answers are never good enough.
If she slits her throat she might not cut deep enough. They will find her barely alive, and try to fix her. Maybe physically, but she’s still mentally broken.
She is cold, she is alone, and useless, and broken. Nobody likes broken dolls.