I'm done trying to justify everything. People will believe whatever they want to, no matter how far from the truth it is, no matter how absurd it sounds. I'm done letting others think they're allowed to dictate my life. The second you share anything...

Why is it that everybody thinks that I know absolutely nothing about myself, or about anything else, ever? And for that matter, why do they think it best to repeatedly remind me of said fact? Do they really believe that if I'm told I'm faking...

I want to fucking die. I want to slit my wrists, and bleed the fuck out. But does anyone care? No, they don't even fucking notice. I'm about to cry, and I don't even know why. I don't need a reason to cry any more, a reason to be suicidal. My last...

I had the cops called on me last night for being too suicidal. As usual, I put how bad I felt in my Facebook status, hoping somebody would read the damn thing and actually give a shit. Call me up, give me a hug, hang with me. Something personal, you...

I feel like I have all these broken fragments floating around in my body. The thing is, there aren't enough fragments to make an entire personality. I'm starting to wonder if there ever was. So here I am, grasping at each piece, trying to get it to...