My life is a good life. I've got clothes for warmth, a roof over my head, a good source of clean water, and food to eat. But I just don't feel right. I don't belong here. I don't deserve this life. I go numb sometimes, I can't feel pain. My emotions turn off sometimes. I can't feel heartbreak and I barely cry. I'm never actually hungry, I just eat because I know my body needs the nutrients for me to survive. I just don't feel like I belong in this type of lifestyle. I'm not useful here. I have no purpose here except to do chores and be overworked by school and job searching. In this life, I have to earn money to pay the bills. In order to do that, I have to get a job. In order to get a job, I need experience. In order to get experience, I need a job. See the problem? The biggest problem though, I'm numb. I'm a corpse, living among those who expect unbelievably exquisite results from tasks I physically can't continue. I get sick of my own reflection, my own voice, me. I've pushed people away because I'm a grenade about to blow. I don't want them to be in the crossfire. I build up a shell that takes months, sometimes years, to break back down. I implode. My emotions. My arms, legs, hips. My makeup. All a mess. These scars, where did they come from? What happened to this innocent girl? She's a victim of society- no. She's a victim of herself. She's so far gone, there's nothing in her. There's no spark. Nothing. She's empty. I'm empty. No one sees. If I tell, I'm seeking attention. If I hide, I'm the weird girl in the corner who never talks. One day, the feelings and emotions come flooding back. I'm happy. I find someone to love. The spark is back. Then heartbreak. The emotions, heartbreak. I turn them off. I flick the switch and go to sleep. Never mind, I can't find sleep. The night goes by as I stare at the ceiling. It's 2am. My phone isn't lit. No messages. No notifications. No missed calls. I'm not needed right now. 5am comes around, time to get up. I can't. I only had an hour of sleep. Maybe less. I'm not sure. I don't want to get up anyway. I don't want to even breathe. I don't want to exist. Why get up and deal with all the stress? Why deal with the people? Why deal with the pool of bodies and know-it-alls? *buzz buzz* My phone. New message. Mike Wazowski: Morning, m'love. That's why. My only motivation to breathe. To exist. To deal with society. To stay clean. To ignore the voice that is my depression. My depression that causes me to feel nothing but hatred towards myself without reason.