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I'm tired. No not like sleepy tired. Tired of being called names. Tired of the stress. Tired of the hurt. Tired of the constant reminder I can't do anything right. Who tells me these things? Me. I do. I'm my worst bully, but its not me. Its the demons inside of me.
I don't know what to do about it. I'm extremely sensitive. Ever since I was little. I always take everything to heart. Even if its a joke. One time I was called a blond in third grade, because I had what you would call a "blond moment". I cried. I fucking cried. Like seriously, what the hell? I don't even know.
Of course I'm not that sensitive now, because I'm older and I try not to let things get to me.
I'm still sensitive though, because I put a guard up nobody can take down. Hell, not even myself.

YOU ARE READING
Apprehension and Sorrow
De TodoThis isn't a story. Its a dialogue. That's a fancy word for "keeping up with my shit in a book". No, but it is like a journal type thing. not meant to be read, but feel free I don't give a fuck, and I don't know you. So no harm done, right? Wrong.