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I lay in my bed, sobbing silently as tears flowed down my cheeks? Why couldn't they see? All I wanted was for someone to see- Someone to care. It's not like anyone ever has anyway... I thought, coldly attacking myself. I start to get up, as I feel a slight twinge from my wrist. No serious cuts this time.. Just cat-like scratches.. More than twenty of them gathered on one wrist. An effortless attempt, because I can never seem to get enough force. Even the razor hates me.

I walk toward the bathroom, quietly as I do so. I don't want anyone hearing me.. Not like they'd care. I stick the razor in my mouth, and quickly put on my hoodie as my dad walks by.

"You need to go do your fucking homework once in a while, Luna, don't be so fucking useless.'' My dad says, harshly.

I reply with a simple, ''Mhm,'' seeing as I couldn't utter anymore with a razor in my mouth.

I walk to the bathroom, in disgust with myself. Now comes the daily ritual. I step on the scale, and shun myself in disgust as it still reads 110. I walk to the mirror, and look at my puffy red eyes, still streaming with hopeless tears.

I spit the razor out.. God. Why am I so fucking clumsy, I think bitterly to myself, as I see blood gathered on the razor. It won't matter anyway... It won't matter, I tell myself, feeling the blood start to pool up in my mouth.

Why do I feel this way? Why am I so desperate, so needing to end my life? I reach into my hoodie pocket, and manage to find a piece of paper and a pen. I sigh deeply, almost regretting my final decision. But I'm not to go back... I'm not to go back..

Wearily, I start to write:

I know you won't care about this. I know that whoever finds this, will toss the note aside in my own pool of blood. But I need closure. A final goodbye. And maybe, just maybe, someone will weep. I'd love to see that. I know I'll be another statistic that the therapists show to their ''psychotic'' patients. If you must know, Here's my feelings:

My life has errupted into a dark depression. Everything around me, everyone around me, doesn't exist anymore. It's only me, only me fighting this cold world off, fighting the hungry hands that try to grasp my only happiness. Lies are so easily weaved to manipulate, so easily bending to any shape or form. But the people who hear them, the ones who have to receive them so easily break. So easily fall apart, and corrode into something they've never wanted to be.

And so, with a last twinge of my wrist, I will spill the blood that carries it. That carries it all. The darkness, the deception, the longing for something more.

I roll my eyes at my attempt to write a suicide letter. At least everyone else can come up with something more. At least they're content with their final letter. GOD!

As I go into pure rage, I grab the razor, now encrusted in blood. I peel it away from the linoleum surface next to the sink, and with as much force possible, slash my wrist. I soon see the blood gushing out, to my satisfaction. A deep gash..? Yes. It is. But not deep enough to do the deed, the dreadful, and ever so required deed. I slash my wrist, multiple times more. I gasp in pure pain and pleasure, pure ecstasy. I hear footsteps in the hall.

Hmm. How could I make this more interesting, I think to myself. Ahh, yes. I start to smear blood on the walls, everywhere imaginable. I hold my wrists above the sink, And splatter the crimson death inside of them. Soon, I look at myself... Back to the mirror. I gasp in horror.

What... Have I become? I start to shake... ''WHAT.. HAVE I FUCKING BECOME!?'' I scream out loud, in my futile attempt to somehow stop the blood with my anxious screams. I take the mirror from the wall, and smash it, calming myself. I hear footsteps in the hall. I can't stop now.. I can't stop now..

I deepen the already gushing gashes on my wrists. Now the blood flows effortlessly, as if it had been under so much pressure, one dent would have been sufficient enough to release it.

''What the FUCK are you doing!? Get the fuck out of there, I need to use the bathroom.'' My dad screamed again, so carelessly. I wonder what he would think if I had said, ''I'm killing myself, Dad, go away.'' Ah, the look. Ah, the pain on his face. Or maybe he'd laugh. At least he'd be joyful at my funeral.

Quickly, I write on the wall. I write with my own blood, as much writing as I can muster before I pass out.. ''Did you know, I wrote love on my arms? Did you ever know that I was the only one at my school, that self harms? Keep your screams to yourself. It's too late now. The floor is covered with my crimson disappointment. I never loved y--'

Soon I pass out, aware that my statement was well under finished. But the rest would be explained by my action. Soon.. Or maybe after the blood dried. My parents never did care much to check up on me.

My dad opened the door in shock, and horror. No, not because I was his only daughter. Because he would have to pay the funeral bills, and explain to the court why I had done this awful thing.

I watched, silently, free. I'm my own ghost now,... I thought, silently. I felt free, somehow. I could do anything, go anywhere I wanted.

That was my freedom.

A ghost, Hmm? I didn't think It'd end this way.

I watch as my funeral continues, silently.

I watch as my father comes up to the stand, and says,

''My daughter, how could you have been so careless, So careless. You were a fucking mistake to begin with, so why didn't you do this sooner?'' He muttered, as he giggled silently.

I felt my soul rush back into my body, from pure rage and anger. HOW COULD HE HAVE FUCKING SAID THAT? My corpse rises, as everyone stares.

Many mutters are heard in the crowd. I ignore them. They're not important, they're just people. Most of them I don't even know.

I start to walk stiffly towards my dad, who is still blissfully unaware, making his god damn speech.

I half wisper to him in a raspy and weezy voice.. ''So.. You Wanted.. Me To Do This Sooner? I'm such a disaster, I should have killed myself faster...''

He turns around in shock and disappointment. People watch in disgust as I move my fingers, and the muscles are seen inside my blood-empty wrist. ''You fucking whore.. When we get home you're gonna get a beati-''

I turn to him, pale-faced and angry. ''You realize..'' I say, my voice rising with anger, '' I'm not so alive.. I'm not so FUCKING alive...'' I grab the blade I used to kill myself from the side of my mouth. I walk towards him, face anticipating with a melancholy-flustered smile.

You've Been So Careless, Oh Father Of Mine, You've Been So Careless.