Save Me

I know it's not normal to think about putting a bullet in your head.

Everyone tells me that all the time.

They say that everything will be okay and it's all in the past.

But it's not.

I don't care if it's in the past.

Neither does my depressed head.

Neither does my anxiety filled heart.

Why?

No one cares about the ugly, fat, and worthless emo.

I don't even care about myself.

Who doesn't care the most?

The voices in my head saying giving up is easier.

The ones telling me to slit my wrists and die.

It's not like I want to be this way.

It just kinda happened.

When?

I have no idea.

Oops.

If I had the chance to be a little more normal, I'd take it.

My purpose could be somewhere, but I doubt it.

I might make someone happy, but probably not.

Sometimes I want saved.

Sometimes I just want death.

I'm losing myself.

Maybe I'll find help.

Maybe I'll sleep forever.

Who knows.

Not me.

I guess I'll survive long enough for me to write about myself.

Now remember: I said I guess.

It probably won't happen though.

Oh well.

No one cares anyway.

That includes me.

Now for my name?

My name is Willow, and I'm probably one of the most fucked up people you'll ever meet.