I'm now 22.
I have changed so much. I've found love, I've found life, I've found happiness. But I still feel the need to keep some way of not forgetting where I've been, and who I was.
Him: "I'm 18. I'm male, and I'm fucked.
My mother sent me to ‘get help’ a few months back. I thought fine, she’s paying for it. I don’t think the quack listened to a single word I said. I’m sure she sits there going “hmmm, uhuh,” and “how does that make you feel,” while doing a crossword.
Her latest bit of advice – To write. Write about my feelings. The stupid bitch, she doesn’t want to help me, but I will write."
And write I have.
Is this really all that there ever was? put the gun in my mouth close your eyes blow my fucking brains out pretty patterns on the floor that’s enough for you but I still need more
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