A thick, black, sweet puddle of my own vile blood has formed on the bathroom floor, and my ugly frail wrist is engraved with the thoughts that torment the depths of my splintered heart; I am inevitably repulsive and horrid. My own mother wishes to slay me, and she has done nothing to deny that she truly feels this way; she has simply screamed her feelings of hatred toward me. Everyone that has ever met the sick freak that I apparently am, has openly expressed how diseased I am, and they all willingly shout the twisted way that they view who I am; I try to hide from all their evil accusations and dead cold stares that drill into me and leave me severed.

I wish to perhaps end this suffering, but I do not want to end my own ill life; I yearn to survive and prove all of these ignorant beings wrong. Eventhough I hope that what they say is wrong, it is near impossible to believe that they can all be wrong; there must be something hideous bout me. I suppose that I will suffer amidst all this horror forever.