I’m a semi-normal thirteen-year-old. Sitting at his computer desk, eating milk and cookies after he gets home from a hard day at school. But in my hand is a pair of scissors, worn from use. I am cutting myself. But once you look past the fat and scars (physical and mental) I am a good person. And I accept that. I don’t hate myself, it’s just my douchebag brain making me take everything the kids at school say to me like they’re true. And some of the things are. I feel mostly carefree, except for the fact that I fail at everything, including killing myself. […]
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