I Don't Know Why I'm Writing This When I Don't Want You to Know. . .

Why is it that I have so many issues? I was left by both my fathers, I've been bullied my whole life, gotten into more fights and gotten attacked more times than I can count, I have no friends in real life that I can tell everything to. Why is it I have panic attacks and depression? Why is it that I hate pain but always want to slice my skin open? It's weird, I know some people care but I want to die. Even when I'm talking to people right now, I want to hurt myself. Even when I'm in a conversation I'll have to make sure they can't hear me cry. I hate myself. I shouldn't. But i do. I find myself unworthy of existing. If you were to kill me I would thank you. If you were to slowly torture me, I'd smile and be extremely grateful. I know that some people want me to stop, want me to not harm myself, want me to live. Yet the thought of myself in agony, dying, entices me. I don't want to tell people because I don't want to be stopped. I don't even know why I'm writing this now, because I know they'll see this. I'm actually on a call with them right now, and I muted my microphone, because I started sobbing. I don't even know what to write or type. Nothing I could say could describe how I feel accurately. So, to those who care: I'm sorry. But I can't help it. Shall I be selfish and ask?: Help me? Please? I'm sorry, I have no right to ask. . .  I don't know why I'm writing this, I don't want you to know how I feel. And I said I don't want to be stopped. I guess I'm lying to myself. I'm a damned mystery to myself.

Sticks and stones?

No.

Knives and pens?

No.

Pills and nails?

No.

What than?

My thoughts and Me,

Will be the death of me.