I don’t want to die but I’m not doing too well at this human thing. I’m done with pointless crying and telling myself it’ll get better. Work seems like a cruel level, as if there’s any that aren’t, of Hell.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to die.
Feel like a fool, dragging this out for what?
I wish I died instead of my mother. She deserved to live, she had people counting on her. No one needs me.
So here I am crying on break in the dining room, wondering if I’m a coward or just tired. Wondering what I’m waiting on. What I want.
Some days I feel like I need to live, see this through to the end. Others I think I’ve already stayed my time, wasting space.
Defective. Very Defective.
Now back to pretending I’m fine.
