And it's called, my mind.
Emilie Autumn says is best when she says "She speaks in the third person so she can forget that she's me."
I'm positive that normal people aren't miserable when living their dreams. Of courses my dreams are actually based on the memories of when I actually had dreams. I haven't had dreams or hopes since I was 9 ears old.
When you face your worst fears and come out hollowed and broken you lose the ability to be happy for no reason. You lose the ability to dream. It's like you walked a mile through tar and came out covered in it. Like it's in your lungs forever and you had to eat it to survive. Like you are only black bile and nothing else now.
I can't feel a damn thing and it sickens me. Makes me feel like I'm not even human anymore. I can't feel anything. When something terrible happens I feel a stab of pain. When something wonderful happens I feel nothing. I pretend to be happy. That's it. I pretend. I'm a fantastic pretender.
Mischief and pain are all I know. Echoes of happiness are few and far between. A breif flame that is swallowed up by the bile. I'm stained. I don't let people close because all I do is spread my stain. My darkness just makes other people suffer.
I'm a carrier of disease and sadness.
I wish i wasn't aware of how much I hate myself. I wish I didn't care about the fact that I don't care about anything or anyone.
I'm so goddamn weak. I beg for pain and punishment for all my misdeeds. I beg God that one day I'll just be hit by a car or pushed off a cliff. Anything to make it all stop. I'm alone and I can't bare it.
I'll be alone for the rest of my life and I hate it so much. I hate how much I want to be loved. I hate how badly i need people to live. I just want to be shot in the head. I want to be buried. I want to die.
I just want it to stop.