self hurt fund

I need to know who you are, who believed in me when i didn't.Please.

why'd you care about a puddle of shit you'll only dirty yourselfnobody will miss me i'm passing away anyway

sick of seeing perfect people, sick of them hiding behind panels of false grief and issues, tired of another pigeon brained shenanigans from tired coming-of-age films. nobody gets out of graves that deep and come out shining, trauma doesn’t make you a better person but you sure as hell can glamourise the fuck out of it for yourself. ink some skin. thread those brows. read books so you can talk about it. make new people worship you for what you overcame. whatever happens, you’ll never want anything to do with who you are. buy up the lot, fill it with body bags. nobody comes close to killing you quite like yourself. close those eyes, this would be over soon. breathe. exhale. nothing is here anymore. forget all cowardly thoughts: you’ll only wish you stopped me from dying, just so to be a better person. no. im dead, goodbye.