I want to kill myself.

I do not want "attention", I want help. Sometimes I starve myself and sometimes I walk through stinging nettle and even sometimes I dig my nails so deep into my neck and arms it starts to bleed.

They were never supposed to see my scars, but they think me a soldier bragging about my wounds.

I do not want to be sent away to convenience you, I want help. I need, help.

I have pressed the chef's knife into my heart and dragged bloody blades across my neck, I have been the book to a writer who writes only in his own blood.

Sometimes I cry. I cry very hard. But even when tears streak my face in the backseat of a silent car, they do not see them.

I am terrified of their voices, I am terrified of their thoughts.

I want to fly away.



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