You. You are nothing.
You are a murderer.
You don't deserve to be talked about.
Your story shouldn't be here.
You are lower than anything.
No one cares to hear your story.
No one cares about you.
Drag that rusty blade back through your skin.
Watch the warm liquid rush from your arms, from your legs into the once white porcelain of the sink. Watch as you expect for the feeling of release to wash your problems away with the blood. Be disappointed as you remember that the feeling had stopped coming long ago.
No one cares about you.
You break the mirror with your fists.
There more blood.
More release.
Right?
No.
A mess.
Blood.
Tears.
No numb feeling now until it's from lack of blood.
A sick smile plays across your features.
There.
That's what you deserve.
No one cares about you.
You're a monster. You get everything that you deserve. No. Not enough.
Lie down in the bathtub then.
You debate turning on the water. Debate letting it take you away as your breathing stops and your lungs fill with the cold, clear liquid.
But you're scared.
Of course you are.
You can take the life of another, of the most innocent thing in the world, but you're terrified to do it to yourself. You don't deserve this life.
It's wasted on you.
You think back.
You thought he used you at the time. You thought you were the victim. You know differently now. You saw the mark turn pink. And you didn't even think twice.
You knew it would ruin your body; you knew what career you had would be over.
So you killed it. Him? Her? You'll never know. You don't deserve to know.
It was cut from you.
And now you cut the flesh it would have been born from.
This blood was its. You're wasting it now, but you don't deserve for it to be in your veins.
No one cares about you.
You've called your mother many times now. She won't leave him. She doesn't even pick up now. They ignore you. Let you bleed.
You were fired. You can't hide scars when you're standing there nude.
Now what?
Now this.
Now another cut.
Now more blood.
Now the tears.
Always regrets.
Do you remember?
How happy you used to be.
Then your cat died.
You warned him to stop.
The magic died.
And it took you with it.
You try to think, think of people you use to know. Maybe you can get help from them. No. No, you know you can't do that.
You cry as you remember your friend, the cheerleader girl who was killed while she texted and sped to a wedding that never happened.
You call the dive girl. Only for her remaining father to tell you about her death on her way to marry that St. James guy.
Puckerman's on tour before the cancer takes him.
Finn's got five children and no wife, leaving for the military with no place for the children.
Kurt and Blaine have their phones cut off.
Think.
Who else do you know?
Her.
No.
Not her.
You throw your phone. Watch as it smashes against the wall.
No one cares about you.
You don't even care about you.