I hide behind these lines.
In my head.
On my arm.
Around my throat.

My life is full of lines.
Learning them.
Cutting them.
Writing them.
Hearing them.
Living them.
Breathing them.
Wanting them.
Needing them.

Cutting isn’t going to **** me.
One painkiller won’t either.
If one can’t **** me, two surely can’t either.
Two isn’t working anymore,
Better take another, and another, and another, and another. (another 4, get it?)
Soon the bottles are empty,
Just like me.

I don’t have enough will to **** myself.
And I hate that I reached out.
And I hate that my friends care.
And I hate that I’m on medication.
I hate myself.
Because I hate myself.

And I hate myself for typing my thoughts,
For someone, maybe to see.
I want to date someone, but don’t want someone to care about me before I go.

Look at all the lines I’ve already done.
They still aren’t enough.
I know I need to get better,
But **** it.



I’m finally happy. (I̶f̶ ̶h̶a̶p̶p̶y̶ ̶m̶e̶a̶n̶s̶ ̶I̶ ̶h̶a̶t̶e̶ ̶m̶y̶s̶e̶l̶f̶,̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶s̶)