I sit in my bed, my head is empty, and I am feeling so, dead. Life has taken me and made me into something I am not. It has thrown countless curve ***** at me until I can barely walk, and it throws another one just to make sure I can’t ever do it again.

I’m breaking, I’m aching, I’m screaming for someone to hear me. To hear my pain. See the hurt in my eyes as I stare at the floor for twenty minutes at a time, sometimes more. I am not having happy thoughts, the only thing I am thinking about is wanting to die.

This life gave me false hope for an okay time, but I feel like now I’m stuck on a ride, that I don’t want to be on. I’m having a hard time staying alive. This life, everything it promised was a lie, I’m not happy, nor having a fun time.

The only thing it seems that’s keeping me alive these days, is the girl with freckles all over her beautiful face. She gives me hope for a future, one with her, one that I want to live to see if we can be anything more than friends or if this stupid world will take her away from me, too.

I asked her out and she declined, she says she loves me, but she still isn’t mine? I don’t know how love is supposed to work these days. Maybe that’s why I said for far to long that I love you to a guy who believed it was perfectly okay to slap me across the face, and call me names like petty, and worthless every, single ******* day.

Every view I have on this world is ******, the thing we call humanity has touched each and everyone, making them poisonous, I can’t even look at myself anymore without wanting to die. This world I was born into isn’t something I want to be apart of in my every day life.

I wish I could end it, but instead I’ll just cry, because I have the freckled beauty, and some pretty okay friends by my side. Who I could never leave. Not until they decide I’m not worth their time.

Depression is a war, one that i’m trying my hardest to battle but still no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to fight. The words are painful, they hurt more than the ones kids at school would yell.

The words I tell myself daily, like “**** yourself” they are the echo of this world I was brought up in, they are my fathers words, the bullies, the ex boyfriends, the ex friends. Those are the words that ring in my head, as I tell myself daily how much I would be better off dead.

I look in the mirror and I can’t find anything else to say except ‘ew’ the once pretty boy I knew is now a ghost, an empty shell of someone who tried to take on the world but ran into the wall of reality, that this world isn’t perfect like it’s said to be.

I struggle some days to get out of bed, I stay awake at three am, grasping onto any happy moments I can find in this empty ******* head. I need happiness, I crave it like it’s a drug, and hell to me, it is.

My life is like a dumb game, one that I don’t want to play. I would think I was dead if it wasn’t the constant heaving of my chest as a reminder that i’m still alive.  

Depression is a war, like I said. I’m not a fighter, and one day, I’m going to be dead. Maybe not now, or even in a few years but I struggle to live. This life is hell, I have no friends, no family to care. Poetry is my only escape from here.