Why Do I Feel This Bad

Haha

Real

Wilted Flowers

They’re pretty, but I’m afraid to touch them— I know they’ll crumble the moment I do.

I think they’re beautiful. Beautiful because they don’t last. Beautiful because they’re broken.

And I like shattered glass: the way it reflects anything you shine on it, the way I can see myself in the pieces— not whole, but fragmented.

I know I’ll bleed when I reach to touch it, drip the contents of my heart across smooth faces and edges that seldom forget.

And I like coffee. I drink it with cream to soften the bitterness. But I never add sugar— too much sweetness makes me sick.

It keeps me up when I should be asleep, telling secrets I should’ve kept, dreading the grinds at the bottom of the cup.

But I guess some things aren’t meant to be held for long— they bruise, or cut, or run out the moment you reach out to hold them.

I don’t mind so much.

Because wilted flowers aren’t soft... but they are pretty.

Kill meeee i cant do this shitttt its all to much

i thought i was at my lowest but holy shit it gets lower

Pretty like tired nights

Pretty like dying leaves

Pretty like broken glass

Pretty like bleach stains on a black shirt

Pretty and fragile

Pretty and gone

I have this silly little feeling in my chest that's making me want to die

Pretty like blood in snow

Pretty like feathers in a vase

Pretty like dried flowers

Pretty like art of bones

Pretty like decaying fleah

Pretty like rotting stones

Pretty like tired nights

Pretty like dying leaves

Pretty like broken glass

Pretty like bleach stains on a black shirt

Pretty and fragile

Pretty and gone

They say go to therapy

It'll help

Then why dose every therapy session end in me wanting to kill myself more

i want to get my shit together so badly

i also want to just give up