Scarred.
Damaged.
But not dead.
I’m alive somehow
and I made it to the end.
New time waits ahead,
a future cloudy with possibilities.
But in the meantime I’m listening to party music
singing along as tears stream down my cheeks
and laughing because you can’t cry while singing about having fun and partying.
And yet I was.
Simply feeling alone in this corporeal world.
Abandoned by the fleshy beings I wanted to call friends.
And so ready to leave them all in my memories.
Maybe I’m overreacting,
but I can’t be the only one who sees these things.
Who sees how they pull away,
how they seem annoyed by my presence.
I can’t be the only one who thinks that maybe,
best friends should care when you say you want to die.
They should talk to you.
I shouldn’t have to beg for their company.
I shouldn’t feel like closing myself off is doing them a favor.
I can’t help people anymore.
I can barely help myself from falling.
I can’t keep spluttering the same shtick
over and over and over and over and over,
all the while praying that some day it will get through,
and feeling worthless when I see that it doesn’t.
The thing that runs through my head,
most every day,
is when will I get to stop arguing and fighting for companions,
and when will someone fight for me?
It hurts when nobody seems to care enough
to keep you.

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