When I write,
I can see how crazy this all is.
When I vent,
I can hear how stupid I sound.
When I cry,
I can't think of anything.
When I hated you,
I hated myself.
When they helped me,
I thought I didn't need it.
When I want to,
I'll realize how much this hurt me.

I wanted to be near him.
I wanted him to love me.
I wanted to always be there for him.
I wanted to impress him.
I wanted to always feel this way.
I wanted to be more than friends.
I wanted to be just like her.
I wanted to be skinny.
I wanted to be loved by him.
I've wanted that for so long, but
.
.
.
I don't think I want anything anymore.

You failed.
They didn't believe you.
Your excuse was horrible.
Your existence was horrible.
He found out.
They found out.
And it was all because of him.
He couldn't keep his **** mouth shut.
Now they know.
Now they know how much of a freak you are.
Their sympathy means nothing.
He just wanted attention.
They don't care.

But you do.

I love drawing.
I love the feel of drawing.
I love the feel of it on my skin.
I love the feel of it tearing my skin.
I love the feel of it coming back for seconds.
I love drawing.
I love that nice red colour.
I love that nice red colour coming out of my skin.
I don't love it when people find my drawings.

Life.
Love.
Money.
Curiosity.
Music.
Humanity.
Standards.
Needs.
­Help.
Time.
No.
Deserts.
Depression.
Anxiety.
Self esteem.

Being normal.
Being weird.
Being perfect.
Being horrible.
Being amazing.
Being good.
Being bad.
Having good grades.
Having bad grades.
Having a personality.
Have a normal life.
Having a different life.