From Her Perspective

*Disclaimer: This wasn't written about me, but from the view of one of my closest friends.

I walk to school alone, with my head down, so nobody will see the tears streaming down my face. My only worry right now is whether or not I'll be able to wipe them away before my friends see. Are they my friends? I think so. They're all I have left. I'm sure that if they found out what I've been hiding for all this time, they wouldn't want to be my friends anymore; unless those thoughts are already in their minds.

So many secrets, none of them good. Life's gotten so hard, especially lately. Don't get me wrong, I've been feeling like this since elementary school, where I was nothing but the freak that stayed separate from everyone else. They wouldn't understand, particularly at such a young age. When your only homework is to colour a picture and stay inside the lines, there's no way they could have possibly made sense of my sadness. I can't fathom it either, not even now.

I didn't have any friends back then, but now I do. Most of them are idiots, though. How hard is it to actually take one look at me and realize that no matter how many times I say it, I'm not okay. I don't even remember the last time I was. Don't they notice the scars? I've given up on trying to hide them because nobody really pays enough attention to me to notice. I mean, honestly! What kind of regular person would carry a pair of nail-clippers around with them, even at school? Maybe if, for once, they would ask me what I did last night, I would tell them the truth. I would tell them that I sat alone, in the middle of the night, in a t-shirt, in a freezing cold field. They would maybe even find out that I've been battling the option of suicide for years now. But I know they wouldn't stick around long enough to listen. I'm used to being ignored and forgotten.

Some of my friends are like me, though. They're definitely not as bad, but they're someone I can relate to for the first time in my life. Even though they constantly say otherwise, I know I annoy them with my feelings of desolation. Sometimes, if they have nothing better to do, they'll try to make me laugh. Rarely, they'll succeed. I'm just too sad and alone. When they ask what's wrong, I'll occasionally tell them I'm tired. Then, they will walk away, assuming I didn't get enough sleep. That's where they're wrong. I'm tired. Tired of feeling sad; tired of wanting to cry all the time; tired of the thoughts that reside in my head; tired of life; tired of living. I'm tired of it all.

I walk home alone, with my head down, so nobody will see the tears streaming down my face. My only worry right now is whether or not I'll be able to let myself survive until the next day.