We are who we are, because of what they are.
The need to be perfect. The need to be thin, skinny, beautiful and popular. The need to be in control. Self-destruction our only friend. Anorexia, bulimia, and ednos, our sicknesses. Self harm - the only way we know how to control our pain. Suicide... The the only way we see as a means to escape. ****, molestation and abuse filled our sick childhoods and now we all pay the price for it. We pay with the blood from our veins, the ***** from our stomach's, the tears from our eyes... We pay for their crimes until we are empty and can not give any more.
We are what we are, because of what they are. And we scream out for help. We cry for forgiveness. We do anything we can to beg for mercy and yet, no one answers. So we cut, and we starve, and we purge until we have withered away to nothing but scarred up bones. Just empty shells of the kids we used to be... And still they don't notice. So we try to **** the pain inside... Over dose. Hanging. Gunshot. Slit wrists.
And then... they notice... But for us, it's already too late. They made us who we are. Whether or not we succeeded, we are already dead inside.