Yeah Why Im In So Much Pain I Feel Like Im Dying Why Not Just Be Dying

Why do I feel this bad

My parents are okay people

I have money

Education

Everything everyone wants

So why do I still feel this shitty

Tw sui talk and attempt

Me having to support my boyfriend after I tried to kms and apologising.

Am I selfish for wanting to scream that mabye it was harder for me??

Am I selfish for wanting the tiniest bit of support??

Like im sorry I tried to kill myself but obviously im going through some shit.

He then proceeded to dump on me how he was sucicudial and acted like he got it

I'd been suicidal for as long as I can remember

Im sorry me killing myself fucked with him I really am

But I feel like he didn't even bother to consider that mabge it fuxked with me

Mabye I get flashbacks and panic attacks because of it

Bathwater

There's somthing about the water

As it slowly fills a bath

Illuminated by only the flashlight on my phone

The way it splashes

And sparkles

It hits differnt

You cant place the feeling

It's strange

And there's somthing about the blood

That runs down my thighs

It mixes with the water

Leaving trails of red till its whisked away

The sting dosent quite hit

For my brain is not here

The hole in my chest

Stole it away

The hole bleeds too

But the blood is not red

You cant see it

But I can feel it

It holds me down when I try to stand

Tells we no as I earn to do

Why do I listen?

It's easy

And its left me no engery

To do anything hard

i’m not getting better anyways so why not get worse

Death is creeping in

I feel it in my skin

Can I reach the light

If I don’t want to live

Holding on to life

Is not my fight to fight

If I’m not with you

Sorry for going through every emotion known to man within an hour

It will probably happen again

Mom walks in: why are you crying?

Me: life's hard

Mom: are you trying to be funny with me? *begins yelling*

Why thank you mother i think im funny as well :p

I want to go back to a time when no one cared so I could destroy myself without feeling guilty

I’d be more lovable dead

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.