the miserable life of a miserable teenager

I’m sure you’ve realized by now, I’m not staying for myself. Nails in my feet.

Shackles around my wrist.

Practically coughing up my organs.

What kind of life is this?

Mom, I love you, but this isn’t a life worth saving. I know it’s hard for you to admit, because you started it.

Though, you can’t keep turning a blind eye to the fire you started.

It wasn’t your intention, but you have blood on your hands.

Wipe them off and free my shackles.

For the both of us.