The truth about me

Reaching for my weapon of choice again for the second time in the last week, I knew my friends would never let it go. I don’t blame them. Makes sense. I’m addicted to it, with no pleasant end in sight. But at the end of the day, it’s my body, it’s my choice.
After staring at the scars of my last cuts, I took the knife to my skin. Over and over again. Watching the blood pool up slightly, just to smear it away to repeat the process.
It doesn’t matter. None of it does, not the falsely sympathetic looks from teachers, not the annoyed looks of my friends as they listen to me carry on and in.
I know hating myself lets others down. My family has no idea. I can’t leave though. Not when I’m about to adopt my first leopard gecko, not before I find someone to love me for who I truly am, all of my different personalities combined into one.
The worst part is people thinking my life is all good because I’m always happy. Guess what? There’s something called pretending. No one knows the real me, not even me. I’m too complex, with all my screwed up emotions and life choices.
So will anyone truly miss me? I think not. But I haven’t accomplished what I want, haven’t gotten into high school stem, or gone to college to study biology to become a herpetologist.