. . .

There’s a demon living in my head, but she answers to my name, she tells me stories late at night that are messing with my brain, when i stand before a mirror she laughs at what i wear, the freckles sprinkled on my face and the way I tie my hair. Do the people sitting on the train fight these demons too? The kind that make u doubt yourself and tell you what to do. Maybe that’s why they never talk because they’re screaming in their head. Why would you hate someone else, when you can hate yourself instead?

Life‘s fucking me up.

No one ever gives a genuine fuck about me. I’m so sick and tired of being so alone and it honestly physically hurts at night when I lay there thinking about what a worthless push over I am.