As each day goes on, with every breath I take,

it gets harder to hold my head above the surface of my pain.

What is the point in living when you have nothing to live for?

There isn't anything I can do anymore.

Why should I fight for happiness?

I just want a peice of happiness to call my own.

Why is it so hard to find someone to call your own?

What is so wrong with me that no one wants me?

What is so wrong with me that I am so alone in this crowd of friends?

What is so wrong with me?

What? Why?

These are always my questions.

I will not live long enough to find out with these ragged wounds upon my wrists,

the dark, sinful, unwanted blood seeping from my body

to stain my skin and pool up on the floor.