These Thoughts

March 2, 2012
I'm starting to feel like this a dairy I come to when I feel alone, late at night. I don't know who ican talk to. I can google anything for hours-but they only tell me one thing. Now I've come up on that thing a couple of time. Depression. I want depression to stop hunting me. I wanted it to be depressed when I was young-before. Now I want it to stop talking to me behind this tinted window. I wish cutting yourself didn't hurt. I would it all the time. Lying is easier than the truth-Truth. Lies seem....beautiful in the beginning. But they tear away their beautiful flesh as you speak the lines "They" tell you to speak. My believes sound more like doubt, and the truth sounds more like a lie. TELL ME THE TRUTH. I feel like I can't die until I know who is the TRUTH. But humans, they know nothing of truth. They lie and deceive you to get what they want. And they cheat, steal to reach "Success". Spell "Success" to me. Cause to me, its not money, fame, exposure. Its being heard for once in my life! Being heard. My silent cries at night that send me to bed. My silent cries, that voice in my head. DIE DIE. Die....but yu never do ! You only grow louder and its killing me. Mentally. Physically. My thoughts aren't my own, but I control everything, but my emotions. Tell me why? Tell me why my skin isn't the way I want it to be. I can hide the rash everywhere it shows but on my face. Thanks. I hate my dad. If I didn't have asthma, I would have this devil skin that covers the face of an angel that hates herself because she is only to marry.......hate. Maybe not hate. Maybe she just isn't an angel. Maybe she is the devil, and she traps this angel inside, that will only end up killing her devil "side" and that "side" of her will be me, the writer, dying. And she will be something amazing like her perfect angel brother. Cause the devil isn't smart like she wants to be. Like her perfect angel brother. Or skinny like her perfect angel cousin. Or perfect like the man she's in "love" with. But are they really perfect? She doesn't know. She won't know if she let's her thoughts take control. She'll never know who cared, loved, and respect her. If she thinks of it, she'll truly never "know". Only imagine. Imagine they heard her speak the words of letter. Open letter. Open letter. Open letter has never been so concealed. But she wants what everybody else want, but is so far behind than everybody else. To be perfect.

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