I Have The Urge To Hurt Myself Every Single Day. It's All I Think About And Yet I Don't. And Then I Hate

None of this would’ve been an issue if I just killed myself at 16

Friend may I propose: The Wisp Sings

I want someone to love me

To choose me, to risk something for me

God knows no one has tried

When did showers become a space to cry

And not a space where we sung

When did our bed become a refuge and tomb

And not the place where we slept

When did school become a thing of dread and misery

And not a space of joy

When did our parents become our enemy

And not the people we looked up to the most

When did pencil sharpeners become refuge

And not a simple tool

When did it all start to hurt

When did I stop loving you

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’m not getting better anyways so why not get worse

Kill meeee i cant do this shitttt its all to much

I love you but my story cannot go on any longer

Im the sequel no one wanted

Im the story the writer hates the most

Im the book searching desperately for an ending

For a close

You're the person who wants it to go on

But a book cant go on forever

My existence feels wrong. Like I wasn't even supposed to be here to begin with.