Sorry for being your imperfect child;
I never felt good enough from the beginning. Although, showered in your praise and constant affirmation, my life is still dull and grey. Monochrome hours pass, and,
I feel absolutely nothing. My heart has no twinge, no ache nor pain—and what little "effects" I feel from my "happy pills" have been doing shit close to nothing. Every piece of my puzzle was lost to the ages, trying to figure out who was the real me and how I could get her back to achieve the happiness that... was once mine. Though, I may have smiled on the outside, my insides were like they are now: broken.
Shit, at least I tried. I tried making everyone else satisfied with the life I'd already given up on. Everyone else could wear a jovial grin, while my eyes were covered in despair, most of them watching as I slowly dissolved into nothing. Many times I wanted to jump off the roof of the building, and hope my brains scatter about below; or run into traffic, pleading for sweet release—but, getting nothing, except excrutiating, repressed memories that now mean something to me. Don't make those faces. Don't snivel and snort, with salty tears running down your scrunched up expression. Please, don't do this now. You're going to make me regret the decision I made.
Whether it was from a noose, or from a bullet wound, either way—I would end up here. The voices wouldn't relent, and the pill bottles were doing nothing but warping the reality around me. I dreamed of my assailants, donned in black, scratching and clawing my eyes out, leaving nothing but gaping, bleeding holes. Then when I awoke, the headaches from the night's endeavor gradually took over, forcing me to sleep again. Fuck this. Why are you all starting to care now? When I've already...
Died?