If I came home screaming I want to die, my family would stare through me blankly and continue on with their day. They would continue to say that I can’t possibly be depressed. How these feelings mean nothing. How I’m being dramatic. I’m sorry that every time I’m alone, I want to die. Every time I ******* think of her I want to slit my throat and go be with her. How I hate how I feel this way and I feel like I’m falling apart. How much proof do you need? Do you want to see my scars? Here: look at my arms, look at my wrists. How can you possibly think any of this is normal? If the sky was green and my hair turned blue, would you believe me then? My body is in as much pain as my mind. I know what it’s like to be hurting inside and out. Though none of this matters… no one cares… I’m just wasting my breath.