I sat in the bathroom today and thought.  About how worthless I am.  I stared at the puffy vein in my wrist and pressed the knife in to it a little and looked at the impression it made in my skin.  I pressed a little harder, and again and again, because I don’t know why to live.  I thought, I wonder if I press a little harder if it will go in.  Maybe a little deeper.  Maybe my hand will slip.  It’ll be an accident.  Maybe it shouldn’t be an accident, maybe I should just do it because fuck knows I can’t stop thinking about it.  I have no reason not to.  What am I living for?  To be in this worthless body making John miserable and practically not existing as far as anyone else is concerned.  He’s right I’m worthless.  I can’t do anything right.  No the sad thing is I could, I just don’t.  I’m a fuck up.  I’m fucking pathetic and inconsequential.  I tried to think of reasons to live but nothing came up.  I can think of lots of things, people I like and places I like to go, things I like to watch or do or see, things that make me smile, people that make me smile, but nothing enough that I should live for it.  The world doesn’t need me that’s for sure.  Nobody needs me.  Nobody ever will.  I’ll never have anything worth living for.  I should have done it.  I should have jammed the knife in as deep as it would go and bled out on my fucking filthy bathroom floor with just the fucking dog to see it.  Not like I need to write anyone, goodbye isn’t really my style.  What would there even be to say?  I’d have to apologize to everyone for living.  For ever knowing them.  That would take so fucking long.  It wouldn’t even be worth it.

Not like I can tell anyone I feel this way.  John would make fun of me.  He’d probably even tell me to do it then if I’m so miserable.  He doesn’t care.  Half everyone else would tell me life is worth living while secretly thinking I’m crazy.  The rest wouldn’t say anything at all.  I wish somebody cared that I feel like this.

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~ by Ashlee on January 5, 2012.

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