F*** Innocence

The pillow muffles my screams of agony. Why is it whenever I try to cut myself it doesn't turn out the way I want it to be?

F*** innocence. By the time I knew what it truly meant, I was already immersed, sunken deep into the sea of reality. 

Bitch.

Hypocrite.

F*** you.

All those words were already slung my way, when I was barely even a teen. I was soooo innocent I barely knew what those words were. But my friends knew though, using them freely around me.

After that I learnt suicide. The beautiful act of killing yourself. The marks on my arm speaks for themselves. But reality has a way of not killing you and sinking you deeper into it, increasing your suffering. The vulgarities increased, and all the negative things started to suffocate me, leaving me gasping for air.

I throw the pillow of my head.

You're innocent? Please. Everyone isn't innocent, or will remain innocent for long.