I'm sorry. I'm not sure of what I'm apologizing for, but I'm just sorry. I just want to stop living. I don't want to be here. Maybe that's why I'm apologizing. Or... Nope, I still don't have much of a clue. I just feel like a waste of human resources, so that's most likely why I had this sudden urge. I'm sorry for being a waste. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
Why is living so fucking hard? It shouldn't be this hard... but it is. I just want to disappear without a trace. Or leave a bloodied shell of a body behind. That's a trace. I'm stupid.
My throat's closing up. It feels as if I'm choking on my apologies and drowning in them because I couldn't get them out earlier. Or it's just my body's natural reaction to crying because I'm fucking highly sensitive. Again, I'm stupid.
I seriously want to die.
Why do you care?
Who would care?
Who?
Who...
Definitely not me. Shit, that's stupid. I'm stupid.
Of course I wouldn't care. Why else would I be writing this?
Wait.
Nevermind.
I just want a voice to call out to me. To talk me out of this.
Talk me down from the cliff.
I don't want to always have to call out for the voice. To tell it that I'm in trouble. To tell you that I need your help. Because that would mean I care. That I have the fucking guts and audacity to ask someone to help me.
I want to be silent and see if anyone notices. I want to keep my mouth closed and see if anyone notices the invisible tears from last night. See if anyone hears my muted gasps for air.
But I can't. I just can't. Something inside me makes me go up to people and fucking point out the streak lines from last night's tears. Even when I tell myself they don't care.
God, I really fucking want to die.
YOU ARE READING
cluttered book thingy
RandomI had some logs published in my book "Just... Thinking", but I decided that I should make a book out of it. The logs will consist of the following: VERY cluttered thoughts, sad thoughts, possibly stories, and much venting. If any of those appeal to...
