I'm sick of this 
I'm worn out
I am a page that has been torn out
A picture that has been burned
I am sick, I am crazy
I'm always being called lazy
I do my best and I'm told that I can do better
I pray for sunshine, but I can't mess with the weather
I'm the gum off of someone's shoe
I am looking for my reason to live, I truly don't know what to do
I have been told by others that I am crap
Hearing people talk about me behind my back
I am fat, lonely, I can't run a lap
I cover my head, while people tell me i'm a load of crap
I know that most of this stuff is true
But tell me, what am I to you?

I was with them for Christmas one year. They weren’t particularly generous, but they did get me a diary. I would write in it everyday. I never had any toys to play with at their house, so this would generally occupy my time. I would never let them see it, obviously. No, that would just make them angrier. I wrote on the last page “And then I died of pneumonia.” Because I couldn’t imagine, or rather, I didn’t want to live past a certain age.

 

Standing outside the bathroom for ten minutes under the impression the door is locked. Reading a paper as I wait. A woman comes over and gets in line behind me. We wait. She is approached by two lovely drunks eager to flirt. Awkward, slurred conversation commences. She gets uncomfortable and I check the door once more and realize it was not locked, merely heavy. Shame then takes a physical form and forever attaches itself to my back.

The worst smell is coffee and cigarettes mixed with the smell of rain. I smell it too often in this drought. It is the smell of life and giving up on it.

I'm glad my 18th birthday was so amazing, I got to spend it with friends who actually cared for me and not ones who left me down in the dirt. . I love that I spent my birthday with my family and I love that I got to spend it with a girl who actually cares about me. I have to vent my happiness on this stupid blog......FUCK ALL THE HATERS, I'M 18 MOTHA FUCKA