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She laughs, and jokes, and plays, little do they know that it's all just a mask.
Little do they know that it's all just a mask. All those insults go straight to her heart. Each one is a blow, and it hits hard. She cuts, but not on her wrists, right above her knee, where the skinny jeans can't be pulled up. She's on the verge of an eating disorder. She's sick of everybody gasping when she gets something wrong. She has enough pills stored to overdose. Everyone says she shouldn't blame her dad, but she just says that she does, she really blames herself. She cries herself to sleep most nights. She feels unloved, uncared about. She constantly asks herself, "What happened to the happy little kid I used to be?" She hates her sexuality now. She's afraid to admit why she doesn't believe in God. Her once innocent writing has twisted, becoming cruel and dark. No one knows how badly she wants to die. As far as she's concerned, she's just a waste of space. A waste of money. The world would be better off without her. She wants to end it so badly, but she's a coward. She can't bring those 4 bottles of pills to her lips. She hopes for someone to notice, because she's too afraid to speak up. Too afraid to talk to someone who can help.
She knows that she must keep suffering on.