“She’s getting sicker”

“She’s just getting sicker” they keep saying to each other, they act as if I can’t hear them but the truth is I can. They don’t realise but at night when they talk about me I can hear them, I can hear every single word about how I hide my arms and shy away. They don’t understand how much I’m hurting inside. They don’t understand how much I want to hide and take my life, to end it all would be a salvation but in their eyes I’m jut their little girl who’s reaching “desperation”. To me it’s a solution and a way to end the pain, they need to see this through my eyes, living each day is destroying my mind.



As I slowly raise the gun to my head I can’t help but think of it as a salvation and a solution to life and pain, but I can’t help but think maybe there’s another way.

The blades again? Surely not…. It’s not a definite way of ending it. Maybe the pills? But they haven’t been reliable in the past.

Or maybe I should just find another way to run away from it all, yet no matter how hard I try its always there following me like a shadow.


We’re judged by people we don’t know, we’re judged by people we do know, but why I that?

I will never understand why we’re judged by everyone around us. I will never quite understand how my scars define me as an emo not a survivor but I guess that’s the way society works. In a judgemental and cruel manor, in a way in which makes people feel like complete and utter shit, because whether you know them or not you’re going to judge them.

Just imagine a world where no body is judged for what they look like, what they do, their sexuality, their ethnicity. A world where nobody is judged for being them, it’d be great.

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Maybe one day you’ll be able to look at me the same as everyone else. Maybe one day I won’t be that girl in the corner with the scars on her arms, I won’t be the one who’s got the bad past, I’ll be just like you. Maybe I’ll fit in again and be liked.

But then again maybe I don’t wanna be like you, maybe I want to be know for my scars because they are simply what make me me. They show my story but only to me, they’re personal like a tattoo only me and a few others know the story behind them.

I’m just waiting for the day when everybody else realises that. When everybody realises that what I’m going through is only making me stronger.

The words you give mean nothing anymore. The names you shout cause no more pain.

Not because I’m stronger.
Simply because they’ve already sunken in. Those words have already taken their effect and now I’m use to the pain they cause.

No more can you hurt me, only cause more damage. It will get you no where I’m already broken to much.


Roger is a voice. A voice that inspires my blogs. A voice that inspires the depression living within. A voice that is slowly beginning to take me over.

But he’s also a voice that nobody else can hear he is mine and mine alone. He makes me notice the negativity in the world and how broken it really is.

Yet I can’t help but realise the things he says run true, they really do make a person realise how selective our society is and he makes you notice that our world really does hate the truth coming out.

But he hates it when I think for myself so in that respect he’s much like the government you don’t really think for yourselves it’s just the government making you believe that you are. At least he’s honest and truthful to that.