vent or something

sometimes all the days mold into one and i wonder why or how i’m still here

but id never really consider changing that because i’m scared of what comes after, for me and for everyone else.

i live for other people at this point, and yet it feels like there’s nothing i can do to help them. i don’t know what they’re going through. my trauma doesn’t compare to theirs. i’m a bit sad sometimes, and they can’t get out of bed most days. it’s selfish i know.

i’m not going to share this with anyone on anywhere someone’s likely to see it but it feels good to write it down. it feels like i’m telling someone. it feels like they care. the fbi might see this and sympathise, or something. it’s a silly thought. an attempt at humour, that’s my coping mechanism.

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