the miserable life of a miserable teenager

after my first run-in at the hospital. ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

They were supposed to make me feel better, I believe.

And I stopped taking the pills everyday,

after I first realized what better meant.

Nothing. They made me feel nothing.

A nothing worse than crying myself to sleep every night.

Maybe daily crying is bad, but physically not being able to get a tear to drop, is arguably worse.

So I decided to stash them instead.

Started swallowing about 10 pills,

after the razor didn’t sting enough.

Rushed to the hospital, just to swallow a cup of goddamn charcoal.

And no one cried. Except me.

Now, I have an ignored failed attempt to keep me up at night. Wasn’t good for the tiny ego I had left.