pass by her all the time. Over the years, I’ve pushed away the people I used to call my friends. I still believe they wouldn’t understand, they’d react the same way I did two years ago. I can’t take it; the laughter, the odd expressions that silently tell you that you are nuts, the sympathy pasted on their faces when they probably don’t even understand it. None of them would ever be able to understand how bad I feel. I go through the days hating every move I’ve done, hating myself for every word I’ve ever said. The pain eats me alive and makes me wish I had never been born.
I think about the days when I was happy, even though I barely remember them anymore. I long for the days when the worst thing in my life was an F on a test that probably didn’t even make that much of a difference. Most likely, I was too upset over the fact that I got a bad grade to think about the big picture.
I look at my clock, which reads 12:38 AM as the time. I don’t sleep or eat much anymore. I mainly stay locked up in my room, crying without an appetite. I have a lot to keep me busy in my room. I used to write poems. I’d show them off to my friends. They’d always be in awe, asking me how I could write so well. The truth is, my