I have no clue
what mental illness is like

but when
you’re sixteen
and you’d rather die
than wake up the next morning

and the things that you used to enjoy
are now only categorized into:
“keeps me sane”,
“gets me away from home”,
and
“makes me forget about how much I want to **** myself”

and your life consists of
going to the class you continue to fail
talking to the people you call your friends
(but really hate, but no one else will sit with you at lunch)
sustaining the body you’ll never be comfortable in
surviving at home because you don’t have anywhere else to sleep
loving the girl that will never love you back
and etc and etc upon infinite etcetera

when death feels much sweeter than life
then something has to be

awry.