I wish I knew what was wrong with me.

Is something even wrong? *sighs* I don’t even know.

I hate being alone, but I love it at the same time. There’s nobody talking down to me. Yelling at me. Calling me a screw up. A fuck up. The spawn of Satan.

All I want is approval. I can’t even approve myself. My face is too round, my cheeks are too puffy. I’m as pale as milk and my smile isn’t even a smile; it’s nothing. I’m too this; I’m too that.

I’m a whiny nineteen year old brat who doesn’t get anything.

I cry when I’m happy, smile when I’m hurting, and stay quiet when I want to yell.

But why yell?

No one hears it when you’re in your Hell.