I want to die, but I don’t want to want that.
What I want is friends and a purpose.
I’m always surrounded by people, and yet so profoundly alone.
And the friends that remain think I am unpleasant in my depressed, manic state,
so I humor them with smiles.
Empty, empty smiles.
I just want a connection.
I don’t want to be disposable.
I hate everything about myself,
but mostly I hate that I think that way.
I think I’m broken.