like i said, i'm a big fat liar. lie everyday. saying i'm at a party, i'm depressed, i'm poppin pills, i'm a fucking druggie. blah, blah, blah. i want to die sometimes, or just forget about life. but i don't think i'm depressed, not really depressed. i've lied and said i've cut myself, but this year, 2017, i did. i got a pocket knife because i think they're cool and i always find myself in the position of needing my dads so, i got my own. the thought of cutting did not cross my kind once when i got the knife, i was just like "yay". i was probably crying to myself one time and just cut with the knife. in 6th grade i would take pins and scratch my wrists but this time, with the knife, i bled. i actually cut myself and i honestly didn't know why, i didn't have a reason. its addicting, self harm. its hard for humans to inflict pain on themselves but when they do its hard to stop. i recently stopped because my friend said if her mom sees my wrist i'll probably never be able to see her again. and i don't think the fact of not being able to see my friends is what made me stop, i think it was the fact an adult would find out and most likely tell my parents. (i fell asleep at 2am writing this, so it ends here)
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spontaneous
Non-Fictioni do shit because i can't feel shit. heres me trying to explain what i can't.
