Blood flows down my wrist, and a drop falls onto my bed, staining my sheets. The blood, a reminder, of my mistakes. The tears, memories, of everything I do wrong. I’m not worth it. I’m just a screw-up. Everybody hates me. Why am I judged for everything I do? Why do people think I do everything the wrong way? Am I not allowed to have an opinion? Can’t I be myself? I just wanna be the true me. The true me longs to come out and be herself and be happy. She can’t do that, though. She is trapped inside somewhere. Sometimes, I can feel her pounding, pounding to get out. She tries to break free, but I’m too scared to release her. I feel like she will make things worse. I hold her back because if people know her, I feel like they will rip her apart like they have done to me.