I am probably the worst person on this planet. If I can’t even help a friend of mine, why do I insist on helping people with problems?
As much as I hate to say it, maybe I can’t be the saviour of my friends and family, and I can’t save the ones who need it the most.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to smile, but no one knows it. I always seem happy and cheerful, but deep down, I want to just let out my bottled feelings. I know that if I don’t let them out, I’ll end up becoming too unstable to the point to where my heart turns black, cold and empty, and it will stop beating. I’ll be a living corpse of my old self.
While I hate the people who put me down, I cap that up, and swear I’ll forgive when I need to forget, too. But the memories stay, they ruin me, and I die a little more every day.
I don’t want anyone feeling bad for me, because what’s the point of saving me if I’m beyond saving?