I did not, you see, want to kill myself. Not at that time, anyway. But I wanted to know that if need be, if the desperation got so terribly bad, I could inflict harm on my body. And I could. Knowing this gave me a sense of peace and power, so I started cutting up my legs all the time. Hiding the scars from my mother became a sport of its own. I collected razor blades, I bought a Swiss Army knife, I became fascinated with different kinds of sharp edges and the different cutting sensations they produced. I tried out different shapes - squares, triangles, pentagons, even an awkwardly carved heart, with a stab wound at its center, wanting to see if it hurt the way a real broken heart could hurt. I was amazed and pleased to find that it didn't.
The hardest years in life are those between ten and seventy.
Wear a mask that grins and lies, it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes. The debt we pay to human guile, with torn and broken hearts, we smile.
I went home at night and cried for hours because so many people in my life expecting me to be a certain way was too much pressure, as if I'd been held against a wall and interrogated for hours, asked questions I couldn't quite answer any longer.
I've come to the point where nothing matters anymore, and things I used to care about aren't worth fighting for.
Did it surprise you that I am not who you thought I was? Did it surprise you to find that I don't exactly stand for what you thought I stood for all along? Did it surprise you to find that I'm not exactly how I played myself out to be? That the person you thought I was is actually nothing to what I am.
Sometimes I think that if I wasn't so good at pretending to be, I'd be better at actually being happy.
Look at me. You may think you see who I really am, but you'll never know me.
I'm young and I'm hopeless... I'm lost and I know this... I'm going nowhere fast... that's what they say... I'm troublesome, I've fallen... I'm angry at my Father... it's me against this world and I don't care.
'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat. 'We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'
Why? Why do I feel so gone? I am now so distant I just don't belong. Now I'm ripped away from existence. I've become so transparent that I lost all substance. Sitting nowhere, breathing fake air. We don't feel anymore, so we can't care. Its about time I clear my throat. Let the hellish screams out till I begin to float. I'd run a million miles from here, just to get out of this cage and escape from fear. You know you're screwed when you crave pain, you wanna bleed all throughout your brain. The blood in my veins is proof of life. I'm not sure if its there, so I reveal it with a knife. Not me any more, don't know myself. Prisoner in my own skin, I no longer comprehend health. It's all in the family they used to say. It's all in the family so it must be ok. They hurt and rape her, they slash and tear her, they kill and torture, they love the terror. We are our own army so lets retaliate. Fight, destroy, show them real hate. Look at the fire in her eyes. That roaring beast never hides. She lost all she ever had. Blood seeps through her skin cause it hurts so bad. Her shattered heart pounds against her breast, scattered pieces cutting holes in her chest. Slowly she fades as she quickly she drowns. Covered in guilt, sequestered from sounds. Tilting on the edge, about to fall off. Her mind is so lacerated it has become leathery and soft.-Anonymous
In the end, music is your only friend.