Day Seventy Two
Everyone's treating me like glass. My friends like I'm fragile glass.  Around me all the time, catering and pampering me.

And other people like I'm broken glass. Afraid to be near be, afraid that I might pierce into them. Or just sweep me to the side like garbage.

The only person who was here to tell me I wasn't trash. I still meant something couldn't stand to be around me so they left.

I should be used to this by now shouldn't I? I should forget everything considering it's happened so many times to me. But I'm pathetic. I can't, because I am physically and emotionally and mentally incapable  to move on.

I mean it's almost been three months, why can't I just get amnesia or something because my breaking point is near.
So near...I can literally feel it crawling its way to my mind, the cracking noise getting louder and louder.

I can't tell anyone. Either they'll be too buried in my problems that I'll be too much baggage for them and they'd leave. Like everyone else.

Or they'll force me to see a therapist again, or send me in some psych ward where I'll be forced to tell my tale to bottom feeding strangers showing fabricated concern for me.

So, I've decided that you are the only person who gets to see...well read, this side of me. And then after I'm done. After I'm all bruised up, and there's no more ointment left. I'll look up yo you.

After I'm all cut, and the blood loss is too much, I'll look up to you.

Realising how significantly stupid I was to think that everything lasts forever. Or at least, good things.

Because in a few...forty...years I'll be dead. And none of this will even matter.
I'm just wishing that those something years weren't that long.

Because I need someone to break me free from my personal hell, but now I realise that I don't deserve them. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm wasting oxygen just sitting here.

How, on the outside golden blonde curls and green eyes and chiseled cheekbones with fair skin. But the inside is as hollow as any.

I literally destroy everything I touch. I can't even hold a knife straight, run wild for the hills once I see it drop, feel abnormally cold in every season.

And they say nothing's wrong with me?

Well, the society's stereotypical 'they' is starting to get on my nerves.

I'll leave now, before I get crazy and plunge my fist into a wall mirror or gut someone's insides out like the psycho I am.