notes: you shouldn't read this

there was a strange feeling in your chest as you stared blankly up at the ceiling. thoughts echoed through your head so chaotically, so painfully, and you didn't have any energy to do anything about it. your chest heaved with each breath, your pulse beating disgustingly against your fingers. it used to relax you, listening to your pulse, but now it made you want to rip your jugular out of your throat. it made you want to choke yourself until you died a slow painful death, the only kind you deserved.

you wished someone would find you. that someone would see you, but there's no one here. youre all alone in your room, crying pathetically to yourself, hoping that this infliction that you brought upon yourself will somehow miraculously disappear you pathetic child. you think someone will come and save you? that these fictional characters in your head will ever give a fuck about you? why do you think these worlds you make are so fucking depressed you disgusting creature? it's always suicide this, despair that, get a grip on yourself. no ones reading this shit. no one cares about your depression. it's your own fucking fault for being so ill equipped for life. all these years of experience and you still need a fucking crutch to keep you going—internet addictions, hours spent doing nothing but daydreaming day in and day out—jesus fucking christ no wonder no one fucking loves you. you came into this world alone, you were a burden to everyone around you and you're going to leave broken, cold and alone and the only way people will ever know your name is through your fucking obituary—

"are you okay?" you looked away from the ceiling, your eyes meeting his. what a stupid question.

"i'm tired."

he stared for a second before lying beside you. "yeah, me too."

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this is fucking disgusting