You didn't care. You still don't. You don't need to see me to know that my eyes are filled with tears, and my face is streaked with messy black eyeliner. You hear it in my voice. But it doesn't bother you. Lie to me, and tell me it will all be alright. I scream, I cry, I live, I die. Whether you interrupt the faulty pattern of my life or not, the events that have chosen to partake in my pathetic excuse of existence have done so for reason. You don't love me. You just pity me because you didn't understand for too long, and you ignored what you didn't percieve to be real. Everything is ruined now, it's too late to pretend to care. People come, and people go. They see the only two options of smiling and pretending like nothing's wrong, or giving a curious look that I, myself, pretend not to notice thus not to explain anything or everything, but it makes me want to tear myself to shreds inside. It's too late. For your pity, for your false sense of caring about anything that has happened or will happen. It's too late to lie to me. I know the truth. But what I don't know is what did I ever do to you? _{Why won't you fucking love me?}

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