Don't call me emo, or annoyingly depressing.
If you do, then I guess you could give a fuck less then.
Right?

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I can’t anymore. I won’t. I push so fucking hard to have it shoved back in my fucking face again. I’ve cried and screamed all I could. And I have nothing left to let out. I’m exhausted. I literally drag myself around the fucking house. I’m so happy at school. I’m away from here. She is fucking insane. She tells me there are bad spirits in the house putting bad energy in it which is why it is continuously making me upset. Tell me that’s not fucking crazy. It is. That’s just it. And it is driving me to the point of insanity!
I’ve told myself before. “Ok. We’re going to do it. We can just end it right now and leave.” Then I think, “What if I fail again? Then it will be inferior to what it is now!” I just can’t do it anymore. I try so hard, and never get anywhere.
People think I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. That my life isn’t bad at all.
Live 5 fucking years in my shoes.
See how you fucking like it.
My father—whom I can’t even…begin to forgive.
My mother who decides bringing me down constantly calling me a fucked up bitch, or a depressed brat..she thinks it’s ok.
Then there is my own very, very fucked up mind. I don’t know what is right or wrong.

Parents are supposed to love you. To love every piece of you, no matter what. Parents don’t beat their kids, don’t threaten to kill them, don’t tell them to kill themselves, don’t molest them, don’t hurt them.
So where does that leave my parents?

I am lying to myself. Trying to make myself believe that things are fine. That they are ok. I’m in denial, people say. I want so badly to believe it’s not real.
That my life from 5 or 6 years ago, never happened.
…
That I never happened.

If I took the pill bottle. If I stuck them down my throat. Tell me how many people would care.
If they did care… it wouldn’t be for long.
I don’t have that kind of impact on my friends.
It would blow over in a few months.
Then I’d be gone.
Just as if I never existed.
I talk to myself often.
Because there is no one else there to understand.
They say they can help..but no one will ever know what you feel..unless you’ve been this low.

“Yes, I want to leave here.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do I have to have a reason for everything?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because of the horrid people in my life…the things they’ve done..the things they’ve said. I will never forget.”
“Understand..?”
“No.”
“I guess I hate my fucking life.”
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t love myself, do I.”
“No. Not enough to keep going.”
“Shame. Isn’t it.”
“No. Not really”
“Maybe, A little..”
“I just wish I could forgive that….whole heartedly.”
Someone. Take me away.

I swear I’d rather be dead.
Dead, as if I was never even fucking here.
To you, who even gives a fuck to read this, I love you.

Death happens..unexpectedly. I’m expecting it to happen.
I’m looking forward to see it.
I’m scared. I’m alone. I’m hurting.
And all I have is my mind.