” I do not have my mental health,” she repeated to herself while looking in the mirror. She stared at the bottle of pills frustratingly. It’d occurred to her that she had not her physical, nor mental health. A worthless collection of matter, a jumble of distorted thoughts, she was nothing; absolutely nothing.

Loved by few, admired by none. She felt numb when in need of feeling, overwhelmed when in need of inner calm. Her mind, uncontrollable, tangled. Trapped in a web, suspended in mid-air, her feet dangling down on the shipwreck of a world she lived in, ready to let her fall face first. A muffled cry for help, six feet under; her coffin lie ready.

Unable to seek refuge, behind every innocent face hid a dark void that sucked her into an insane wonderland, one that played with he mind more than the illness, you had a sweeter smell than the most exotic flower. An evil truth lived behind that plaster, love was an amazing servant and a horrible master.

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