You always think i'm happy. That i'm just ok. Really my insides are just dying, of course you don't know. Always staying to myself. Thinking maybe this is how a person dies. Hating the pain, only causing more. People say stop, it's all an phase. You say you care, you've tricked yourself. You say i'm your everything yet shows nothing. Wondering if you actually care. Or if there is someone else. Only making it harder on me.
Saying hello to the razor once again as it meets my wrist. Creating the pain. More and more, deeper and deeper. Blood starts to drip. Not knowing what else to do. Crying to myself. Losing my mind. Now the smoke fills my lungs. Killing them slowly, wishing it would kill me now. Yet i tell myself over and over it's still ok.
Wishing you could see how much i struggle. When you drink i Hate the fact i can't stop you. That i'm so useless. I'll always be useless. Making me really wanting to die. Never knowing if you would care. The razor gets deeper down. It makes me feel better. Never talking about. It makes me feel worse. The fact i think you just don't care.
