the miserable life of a miserable teenager

And they’re proud of how far I’ve come.

Not like any human would say it to me. They don’t understand. They can’t see my scars.

Maybe, my angels can. They wouldn’t judge the weapons I’ve used. No, only celebrate the wars I’ve won.

I need a few angels.

Dad doesn’t remotely get it. Mom doesn’t completely get it. Brothers don’t get it. Friends don’t get it. Therapists don’t get it. I don’t get it. Content is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

Angels, please tell me you do.

You saw the test God signed me up for, and you had my back through it.

Angels, can you hear me?