p style="text-align: center;"span id="docs-internal-guid-7a21099b-efcf-1c39-4f83-834f09c01ac5"span style="font-size: 24px; font-family: 'Just Another Hand'; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; background-color: transparent;"I'm tired. Not the sleep type of tired either. I'm anxious, stressed, nervous, sad, terrified, and so much more that if I went on you'd have a better chance of counting every star in the universe. I just want my pressure, my fears, my loves, my everything to go away. I want to hit the backspace button and re-write my horror story. I want to have my story publish with a happy plot and a happy ending. But I want to love so much, and watch everything else burn, I want all of the things that hurt to die, but they can't because they make me happy and they make me want to cry. They make want to jump, they want me to jump off a building, I never have a decent medium. Always depression or fake smiles. I'm bitter, filled with hate, and sewed together with regrets. As I write this I sit here in the dark, starving myself as much as I can, so that I may fit in. I wear the long pants to hide the scratches, slashes, and bruises. I can't take it, I've considered telling someone. No one to tell. I consider telling the person I love, just what they mean to me. No one to love. I thought about starting anew, I have some internet friends, but they don't even know the real me. I have to act happy, innocent, and as if everything is a world of sunshine and rainbows. My 'real' friends tell me that I should just kill myself, they call me fat, that I'm worthless, they tell me I'd have no one if it weren't for them. I say no, but my tears tell them they're right. I can't win, so why bother to raise my gun for war again. I give up. I GIVE UP CAN'T THEY SEE WHAT THEY DO TO ME. I WAS A TOWER LEANING HIGH INTO THE SKIES. NOW I'M THE REMINISCENT OF A FALLOUT BUNKER AFTER A WAR. I HATE IT. I GIVE IN. THEY WIN. They win. I'll just disappear, then they can't hurt me. They laugh at me, and say I should too. But this isn't the friendly chuckle, this is the malicious laughter that echoes in my head every night. I just follow them and hope to one day fit in, but it occurs to me now, I'm the lost runt of the universe's pack. I'm the one that gets left out to die, in the rain, snow, sleet, and storms. But I am my own storm, I tear myself apart, I kill myself everyday, but not completely. They do that for me. I'm a hollow shell, a ghostly reminder of what I could be. I'm the nightmare every man fears. I am the thing every man laughs at. I am no one. I am nothing. I am no where. I am worth none. I am alone. I am dead. /span/span/p