I hate life. I have thoughts of suicide, but I'm to scared to follow through. I scratch my arms. It could lead to cutting, but first, who cares and second, I want to tell someone. I can't tell someone. If I told my friends, they'd tell an adult. It's the 'responsible' thing to do. If I told my family, they'd freak. I can't fucking deal with my friends fighting. One really cares about the other, and is going through depression. The other has anxiety and depression and snapped when the other told them she cared. I said they were both in the right, but it's a lie. They're both in the wrong. I want to hurt everyone, and no one, and myself. God, where is scratching privacy when you need it?
YOU ARE READING
Diary of confusion
Non-FictionMe ranting about the shit that goes on in my life, and if you want to, you can rant as well.
