Clinically Insane

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I never really knew what was normal and what wasn't, we never really are told, we find out ourself, we don't even get a guideline of what is normal and what isn't, how am I to know?

I didn't know it wasn't normal for a 17 year old girl to put a bullet in her head, or it wasn't normal to mutilate yourself behind closed doors, then again I never have been normal.

The moment I classed myself as an outcast was when the girls in my class called me names I didn't deserve, when I found a release in pain and hurting myself, if it was with a blade or a lighter or smashing my head against a wall.

Cause in that moment I don't have to think about those girls or the fact the boy I like wouldnt kiss me, I'd only focus on the pain, the pain I inflicted myself, not the pain of other people making me feel.

How's a 12 year old girl meant to feel when she can't walk the school hallways without going home with more bruises from the girls who class her as scum, or the boys who think you're ugly as it is but want to make it worse.

So as I stand there in my room, my father's gun in my hand, note on the bed, texting the few people I class as friends that I'm just tired, they just say I should sleep, but sleeping doesn't help, meaning I have to wake up, and go through this again the next day, but sleeping forever. that sounds amazing to me, the happy pills I'm meant to take sit there on my desk, opened and emptied.

These pills, I didn't want them, being classed as 'depressed' isn't really something a 14 year old girl wants to hear, I don't know why I was like this, maybe its my music, or my drawings of black and red, or maybe this was what I was destined to be, an outcast, the bullets loaded.

I hurt myself for the last time, no more pain, no longer nervous of the scars, any visable skin already scarred, I downed the pills over half an hour ago, but they still haven't taken effect, the bullet was my last resort, there's no one to stop me, my father, losing a wife is hard, so is losing a mother, he isn't here, working like always, taking a deep breath, I ready the trigger, nobody cares, the words repeat, the voices repeating this over and over.

A lonely 16 year old girl in her room, the monster inside her head scratching at her, picking her flaws out, repeating them, telling her what to do, the voice isn't anyone else's, its hers, so it must be true, looking in the mirror everyday and wishing to be someone else , Told to be ugly and worthless, scars up her arms and legs, that crimson line was beautiful to her, not so much to others.

This is how I'm going to die. a bullet through my skull. maybe my blood will splatter some beautiful pattern, I wish I'd be able to see it, my dress is black, thick straps crossing at the back, reaching just above my knees, I wanted to die pretty, my boots laced to the top and my tights are fully up, my dull Brown hair is curled, eye liner that would make my blue eyes pop, being dead inside stopped that healthy glow.

will I die with my eyes open? closed? who would go to my funeral? who will lie and say I was beautiful when they never said that when I was alive? sometimes that's what you want to hear, that you're beautiful? I was to die a virgin, never kissed, never touched, who would? people seem to appriciate you more once you're dead.

Taking a breath, my last, finger on trigger, I pull it.