The things that trigger these thoughts are my parents. They say things, like that my feelings don’t matter. I’m starting to believe them.
I’m really trying not to cut myself right knowing there’s a fresh razorblade on the desk waiting to taste my scarlet sorrow.
I wish I had good parents that wanted to help my mind.
All they do is laugh and say I have nothing to be sad about because I have more opportunities than others.
My feelings don’t matter to them.
I hate how they view me.
I wish I had real parents.