Maybe there’s nothing left of me to be destroyed after all.

Just fucking hell. This is fucking ridiculous.

I’m going to destroy myself from the inside out.

I really don’t understand how I haven’t killed myself yet.
The harsh reality is that I’m over silent suffering everyday, I’m not a strong person and I don’t handle things in a good way.
Anxiety, stress and sadness is getting the best of me. It’s eating me alive. It’s tearing me apart piece by piece.
People don’t understand how embarrassing it is to not want to roll your sleeves up because you have big scabs on your arms from scratching the fuck out of them.
Or even wanting to pick them to see blood. To feel pain. To let the nervousness and anxiety you feel run down your arm.
My own thoughts are going to be my murderer and it just scares that fuck out of me that I’m going to snap one day and do something I won’t live to regret.
I’m distancing myself from reality. I’m turning into a mess, a monster even. Doing things to numb the pain I feel inside.
And it’s not like anybody cares so.

Anonymous asked: yet again another photo with that boy. IS HE YOUR BOYFRIEND???

No his not my boyfriend, for fuck sake.