Happy

They say I'm lucky my life hasn't fallen apart yet. They say I'm sweet and kind and wouldn't hurt a fly. They say I'm innocent and haven't seen the troubles of the world. I don't know the pain of children starving in some other country, never felt the bullets of a battle. They can say whatever they want. They don't know the wars raging in my head. The hunger, the longing for someone, anyone, who understands, that lingers at the pit of my stomach. They don't know the fly has done nothing to me, they don't know how much I resist the urge to scream in their ears and kick at their shins until they fall off. They don't know that everything around me crumbles while I alone, stand amidst the ruins.
They don't know the pressures of trying to hold the pieces everyone around you, trying to put them together. Any minute they can slip through your fingers, smashing into millions of tiny shards that hurt under your feet while you try to pick them back up.
How can everything I touch turn good, but everyone near me dies a little each time I try to help, inside or out? How can everything they say, and also everything they don't, be true?
There is simply no other way to put this. They're all idiots.
THEY.
ARE.
WRONG.

Thanks to CordeliaWolf for editing stuff, check out her account and our shared account:
Her account-@CordeliaWolf
Our account-@DraftingStories