《I DON'T KNOW HOW TO BE LONELY.》because, because i'm dead inside

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sometimes i wonder why i write this bullshit, this bullshit that no one will remember when i'm in my grave. i wonder, DOES IT MEAN ANYTHING AT ALL? what does all of this mean; strings of broken words and suicidal thoughts and poetry from all the times i was SO FUCKING ANGRY. angry angry angry. always angry, always hurting. always weak. always dead.

so i tell myself:

because, because i am DEAD INSIDE. when you look into my eyes you'll see nothing but darkness. i have never been alive. what does this life mean? what does making a future mean? why? when everyone else is hurting so much more and telling you of all their anguish and pain and you feel so much more alone because your problems don't matter, your pain is nothing but childish agony. because, EVERYONE ELSE IS HURTING. and your problems DON'T FUCKING MATTER. that time when she choked you against the wall didn't even leave bruises, except for the ones on your heart that you hide with concealer and mascara tears. how pathetic you are, that night on your birthday when your parents fought at midnight and you sat shaking against the wall till 2 am. how pathetic, it was just a fight like all the others. how pathetic, when you asked your therapist for help over email that night. how pathetic you are, smiling and lying and pretending and crying and killing yourself inside.

because, because everyone else's pain matters. all the deaths they saw (WHEN THE ONLY ONE I'VE SEEN WAS THE HUMAN I ONCE WAS), all the agony they kept inside, all the moments when they were on the floor in their own blood. because their pain matters, all the times when their parents fought at 12am and when they were hurt, when they were hurting. when they're dying inside, feeling lonely and shaking and panicking and cutting themselves. because no one ever believed them when they told their stories. because none of my life matters when other people hurt like that.

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because, because i am just a puppet being controlled by the strings attached to the fingertips of the shadow inside me. i am neither death nor alive, neither puppet or human. all this hatred, all this pain... if i can just suppress all the weakness i show perhaps i would pollute the world less with my invalid anger.

because, because i've been hiding my whole life, dodging and hiding and running away. because, because no matter how much i hurt people hurt more, so i must continue to hide from the monster in me and give away the light in me, even though i have none.

because, because in the end, there's nothing but my grave left for me to walk to.

NOTE:hey, your problems are valid. no matter what you believe

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