{Written in High School – exact date unknown}

I hate that I am here.
People are happy,
and smiling.

I may be smiling,
but inside I’m dying,
and crying out for help.

I want to hurt myself;
cut.
Just to remove some of the pain.

She tells me not to.

I want to be dead.
I feel bad, feel guilty
that my family has to suffer
with me around.

I know I should be grateful.
But I’m not.
I wish I had not
chosen to come.

I don’t know why
people are nice to me.
I have no reason
to deserve it.