Don’t look at me. Don’t listen to me. I’m only trouble. No self control. No moderation. No sense. No. I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore. I would say that I don’t know how I’m holding it together but I don’t know what I’m holding together. I think about dying too much. I don’t mean it. I know I don’t. But sometimes it sounds like it makes sense. Sounds like the only thing to do. I just wanna get out. I don’t know what I want, but I figure it’ll be easier to figure out if I’m gone. Gone, gone, gone — far away from everyone I know. I just want to be happy. I don’t know why I’m not. I have everything I could ask for. What’s going to change if all I do is leave it?

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