I want to feel the rain pouring down my skin as my tears blend and no one sees them. I wish my face did not become as red when I cry. Then no one would know.

Sometimes I want to see the sun everyone speaks about. I want to feel its rays caress my skin, play in the grass, guess the shape of a cloud.

I don’t see the sun. I only see the clouds. But the clouds I see have no shape. They gloom over me and tie me to my bed.

I wish I could get up. Work is piling up on my desk. Red book, blue book, one book, two books…. I can’t get up.

I watch Netflix. I don’t pay attention. I want to, but my mind drifts into Nowhere. Maybe that’s why I like Netflix so much. I don’t do anything.

I should want to go out. I should be happy. I don’t. I’m not. When I’m out I feel like everyone is having a nice time but me. Words blur into endless streaks of nothingness and their words are muffled. I don’t know what they are saying. I feel outside. I am inside. Not really. They don’t know I am just pretending to look at my computer or that my smiles are fake. I’m not paying attention to my screen. I’m just looking at a random document I opened.

There is work. I have so much to do and so little energy to do it. Every time I cry I feel as if my soul has been dragged down to Earth and is being kept in a little vault. And every time someone speaks nicely I doubt them. That’s not true.

And I have this friend. And he’s nice. When I’m not sad. When I’m sad… I can’t talk. I tried to walk around; I ignored the nagging tears edging near the corners of my eyes. I tried to focus on something – everything – nothing. But then we sat down. And I guess that’s when I lost it. He was nice. Nice. But I stared at the trees, wanting to disappear. Because to me him being nice was a lie. It can’t happen. It’s not logical. Nice is a lie that only exists for those people. People like him. The people I’m not supposed to be with.

I always wanted to be with people like him. I was never good enough.

And I guess when I am sad, I remember that. I don’t deserve it. I scream at him because I’m mad at myself. It’s an anger that burns like scorching acid going down my throat and I can’t cry out for his help. I can only scream. And I push him away because I’m furious. And I’m furious with me because I’m alive.

Tears slide down my face and I hold the pills in my hand. I know they won’t do anything. It’s only five pills. They won’t do much. And I hold them closing my fingers tightly, hanging on to them because they are a tombstone with my name written all over it. I can touch the detailed carving.

I have a plot of land accredited to my name in some graveyard near my college. I see it everyday. And everyday I think of how cozy, how nice, how warm it must be to be underground.

I often ponder about my existence. And after carefully, objectively and slowly analyzing everything, the conclusion is always the same: my existence is useless. What am I if not some stone in everyone’s path?

I have a house, but I don’t know the meaning of home. I have friends, but I do not know what it feels for someone to care about me. I care. I care too much. I care more each day, and I still think of that warm, fuzzy place on my drive to school.

I didn’t take the pills, not because I didn’t want to. I want to. I deeply desire to. But I am a coward. I am one of the most cowardly people I know. He told me not to. I promised not to. But his word and my word and everyone’s words are just letters put together. I want them.

And today I washed a knife, and I saw my blood in it. And it was so perfect. I wanted it in my wrists, but I am a coward; I would have screamed before I had bled out. My hand drove the knife to my stomach, and I started to push. My shirt should have ripped but it didn’t. I shook my head. I dried the knife and put it away.

But I still want it. And each time I close my eyes I don’t want to open them. I hate opening my eyes each morning. I hate seeing the clouds.


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