What's wrong with me? I don't know... by ThatAngelicPhoneix, literature
Literature
What's wrong with me? I don't know...
I am good for a while,
I'll talk more, laugh more.
Sleep and eat normally.
But when something happens,
Like a switch turns off somewhere.
And all i am left with is this darkness in my mind,
Each time i feel like I'm sinking.
Deeper... And deeper.
It makes me sorta scared.
Terrified that one day i won't make it out alive.
I feel like I'm gasping for air,
Screaming for help...
And everyone just looks at me with confused faces,
They wonder what I'm struggling over...
And to be honest,
I don't even know what's wrong myself...
Does that make me crazy?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Depression isn’t true, my dear
Depression isn’t real.
It’s just a silly tragedy
You’ve forced yourself to feel.
Anxiety is fake, my friend
You wonder why it’s there.
But others have it worse than you!
Stop forming false despair.
Cutting is dramatic, love,
It’s ugly, and it’s dumb.
Why not just get over it?
Is the attention fun?
Suicide is stupid, dear,
And selfish, if I may.
Get over yourself, darling,
Can you hear these things I say?
Why aren’t you replying, love?
Oh, where could you have gone?
I never meant to hurt you, love,
Did I say something wrong?
Why aren’t you replying, dear
Wolf in sheep's clothing by Lostequine, literature
Literature
Wolf in sheep's clothing
She was a sheep in wolf's clothing. Cold, dangerous and could rip your throat out with just a few words; protected herself from the wolves she roamed with. The skippers and the non-achievers, brought her down without a care of who she wanted to be. She helped them feast on those who didn't hide themselves. She hid so carefully, got as close as she could ,then pushed away with momentum strong enough to topple a brick house. She was feared, she was hated and no one wanted to get close to her but she didn't care.
Until she saw you. You monster hiding in wool she was so naive she didn't see the splits in your fabric until she was already close e
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a family,
Nobody who lives for their care,
Nobody who wants them around,
Nobody who helps them through life,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has friends,
Not a person there for a simple hug,
Not a person existing for a reassuring look,
Not a person around to leave the words,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a home,
No place to live and feel happy in so,
No place to live without leaving again,
No place to live to avoid the truth,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a love,
Nothing there to hold them in warm arms,
Nothing there for a kiss to remember,
Nothing ther
Oh. It broke.Don't worry, we can fix it!
Why bother? It'll just break again.But then we can make it stronger!
It won't make a difference.Well, we have to fix it if it's broken, right?
Not unless we stop using it.But we have to use it!
We do?We do!
It's useless fixing it though; it never stays quite right.Then we'll just have to make sure it does this time, won't we?
You know you're just setting yourself up for failure.We'll see. You know we're going to end up using it.
And a week after we start using it, it'll break. Again.We just have to learn how to use it properly.
And what is this "properly"? Have we been using it dangerously this
I don’t want to go to sleep.
Tomorrow will come,
Whether I want it to or not.
There’s nothing wrong with tomorrow.
It’s just that…
Tomorrow will be just as lonely as today.
If I pretend that tonight will last forever,
That by keeping sleep at bay,
I can alter the passage of time…
I would never sleep again.
I feel worthless and hopeless,
Like I need to find a way to justify my existence.
I believe my existence was a mistake,
A mistake I’ve tried to rectify numerous times.
Against all reason,
I continue to exist.
That leaves me trying to find a way
To make up for breathing.
People say I’m nice,
But ho
Amongst the Moon and Frost: Chapter 1 by LegendofFullmetal, literature
Literature
Amongst the Moon and Frost: Chapter 1
Cake scattered the floor.
It was a beautiful red color. Red velvet. Splattered all across the tile that was yellowed with time. There was one big chunk, surrounded by others that slowly grew into smaller and smaller crumbs the further they were from this central fragment. A few of the slightly larger pieces had been grinded into the kitchen floor, smushed into it, trampled by angry feet. They looked like random dark crimson blotches among the innumerable crumbs. The way the broken cake looked, the whole scene strongly resembled a horrible, grotesque, quite unique murder scene.
Like the floor was tainted with blood.
It would have been quite