I say that I’m happy, and don’t get me wrong, I am. But no matter how much I smile or laugh at your stupid jokes, something’s missing. It’s not you. Your perfect. But it’s something inside of me, even when I’m happy I still wouldn’t mind slitting my wrists or swallowing some pills. One minute I’ll be kissing you and the next I’ll be thinking about running in front of a car. One day I’m afraid I’m going to hurt myself much too bad, and in result, hurt you.