Beauty in sadness

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People say that there's beauty in sadness,
But how can that be when it's ripping me apart?
I keep on thinking, maybe that's my problem,
Unable to commit to even the most committable things.

I try to think of my future and I can't,
When I tell people that, they say that I'm scared to grow old,
But I'm not,
I'm scared to die young.

I can't envision being married,
Or having children and loving them,
Because if I do, they will possess my own faults,
And I can't bring that upon a single soul.

I don't expect anyone to understand my feelings,
And I hate how empathy and sympathy are mixed up too often,
But maybe it's because I can't feel what others feel,
Leaving me forever living with my demons.

I can only remember the bad things,
We're asked to think of the best days of our lives,
Somehow, I don't have a single one,
But too many perfectly recollected bad ones.

Whenever I cry for attention,
When I get scared of fading in front of their eyes, without them even noticing,
When I'm scared of dying young,
I'm told that I'm normal and it's fine,

So I guess I've been feeling "fine" for too long.

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