Letter to me

Okay, me.
Time to stop spamming the chat with lonely messages like your friends tell you to.
Time to stop bothering them with your teen angst and your depression and your anxiety in large crowds.
Time to stop inconveniencing them with your crappy drawings and your half-assed stories that aren't happy enough or aren't dramatic enough or simply just aren't enough.
Dear me, you're never enough. You've never been enough.
Nobody cares.
Nobody likes you.
They pretend to care and tell you not to be depressed, but in reality who would give a crap if you just cut your wrists and jumped into traffic like you thought you would?
They might cry a little. They might even hold a funeral. Wouldn't that be nice.
Dear me, I know you're not going to do it for real. You don't have the balls.
Just tell yourself it's not the last day, that little motto you made for yourself that worked for a week. Tell yourself that inspiring story about how your cute little friend saved your life with her cute little note. Those 27 reasons why I shouldn't die.
Dear me, please get a clue and note that that friend is now the one who wants nothing to do with you and is suddenly annoyed by your existence.
Yeah, sure. You can think about the future. You can speculate about where you'll apply to college and plan out end-of-year festivities and think about how well-known you'll be if you become an author when you grow up. Like your shit is even worth publishing. Like anyone cares about you, dumbass. Like you have some redeeming quality. Everyone would probably be relieved if you just went and did it like a more effective person already would have.
No, no, no, you won't do it, me. Just tell yourself that nice little story about how your good buddy accidentally saw your scars and reported you to the guidance counselor. And how the twenty minutes in that office where you lied your fucking ass off scared you so bad you pretty much never did it again. Ahum, pretty much.
Dear me, does it strike you as ironic that the most terrifying twenty minutes of your life were those where you could have actually gotten some fucking help?
Dear me, humans are futile.
You know this.
In a couple decades, probably, our species will commit suicide together. We'll flood the coastal cities and melt the ice caps and bake the earth with the rising heat. Or maybe we'll just shoot each other until there's no one left. God knows Wal-Mart makes enough bullets for that to happen. What's the difference?
Dear me, for once keep a promise. It was "Extrovert Week", you said. You would talk to new people every day, you said. And here are we now? Two conversations after school? Bitch, you can't even talk to your gym partner. And that's only the beginning of everything you've never done. What about all those unfinished stories that you were so hopeful about? That now lie abandoned on a pile of notebooks? The ones that you thought you could read to your kids one day? Haha, yeah. Because that's happening.
You're basically worthless. Have you ever done anything of value? In your life? Nope? So then, what's the point of continuing to live when you've never done anything of value with that gift of life? You've had your chance. You didn;t die at birth, you didn;t die that time when you were two years old, you didn't die that time you choked on the fajita, you didn't die when you though there was a school shooting (by the way, it was a slamming door, not a bullet), you didn't die of an undetected heart condition like your acquaintance from social studies. And you've done absolutely nothing with all of these chances.
You are a waste.
A waste of life.
A waste of space.
A waste of money.
A waste of resources.
Dear me, the world would have been better if you had never existed.
Dear me, kill yourself.
Dear me, kill yourself.
Dear me, kill yourself.