The Misfiring Brain Synapses of a Saturday Afternoon

Is it wrong that in every dream I have, the bad guys only get me because I let them?

Or that all the suicide songs make me smile, because they’re telling me that I’m not the only kid who feels like this?

Should I be worried that I feel better when no one talks to me, because it means they can’t hurt me?

Or that I wish awful things would happen, so that someone would talk to me, and that I would finally have a reason for being like this?

I wish I knew whether or not it was ok to want to smash glass until my hands are ripped to bloody shreds, and to smoke and scream until my lungs rot and I vomit them up. To want to waste myself, watch myself decomposing, and know that I’m dying by my own hand, and that eventually no one will care, or even notice, because as long as I’m alone, I’m safe from other people…

(Christ I’m scared.
I wish someone would hold me…)