8.6.16

I have a habit of wounding myself whenever I’m hurt. It’s not that deep, so the marks don’t last for a week. The scars may not stay for too long but they are ugly. Probably as ugly as me. Perhaps that’s the reason why I don’t mind painting demons on my wrist. No one will notice it. People will not mind. I am not an important person like what you’re thinking.

The truth is, I want to die right now. But the problem is my parents are not yet ready. I haven’t paid the debt that I owe them when I was born. Imagine the state of the financial crisis they ought to face when I die. I am a 22-year old girl, suffering from a disease that may be similar to an existential crisis. It is so hard to survive a day while battling my personal predicaments. Also, a part of me is still hoping that someone out there can save me. I highly doubt it, though.

Why? Are you really asking me why I think there’s no one out there who can save me? It’s simple. No one cares unless you’re pretty or dying. In my case, I am far from the descriptive manner of being “beautiful.” Two, I try my best to detach myself from my darkness when I get up in the morning. Yes, I don’t want people to see how damaged or broken I am.  I don’t want those people to slap me in the face with the thought that they don’t care about me.

So fuck me. Fuck me fuck me fuck me. I am trying to put the rope around my neck here while my family and friends and boyfriend are busy with their own business. I have never been anyone else’s world, and I swear to god that I will never ever reveal these inner demons to anyone who can’t make me the center of their universe.

The world is full of shit, and I am one of them. There’s nothing we can do about it.

 

Disclaimer: No, this entry here doesn’t sum up my whole emotion right now. Words aren’t enough to express how close I am to detonating the bomb, planted by my own shitty self. Shit. Shit shit shit shitshitshit.

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