the miserable life of a miserable teenager

Doesn’t feel like it did at the start, yet that’s when I could turn around. Irony’s funny. My brother, the pothead, gasped when I told him weed is the only way I can sleep, besides exhaustion.

My mother, nearly cries every time we have an interaction.

I’m fucking sorry.

I’m sorry I only feel okay when my eyes won’t open fully.

I’m sorry I stink up the whole house, because I’m selfish and can’t avoid the temptation.

Going outside is now considered, hard work.

I can’t explain how sorry I am.

But can we please talk about this later,

you’re ruining my high. Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.