This is no poem

This boy,

Hes trying.
Hes trying to help me survive him, this, and the hell in its entirety.
Although I appreciate his assistence
and cant imagine doing things without his words and thoughts
I fear I am becoming too much.
And like everyone else
he will soon grow very tired.



I am learning to fix things on my own,
but my way isnt the most healthy
and seems to always serve to be the most self destructive.
But I try to escape myself, my injuries and my memories all too much.
My back is finally mostly healed.


P.S. Mother doesnt love me


I will actually write when I am closer to putting myself back together