It doesn’t matter.  My putrid life is meaningless.

In this world or the next, I am an unnecessary spec of nothingness.

I don’t care about anything, but I care for everyone.

They reject me and my kindness like a sick disease.

I try, but can never succeed.  In being myself, in being different.

Individuality, uniqueness, and originality are a rare gift, bestowed upon those who accept themselves, but are not accepted.

To exist as your true self is almost impossible.

The popular are weak manifestations of clones, created to destroy your spirit.  To crush your dreams and rip you soul assunder.

Fake emotions of love and happiness are my mask.

Covering me like a shadow, but not hiding me completely.  Tiny glimpses shine through and try to grasp freedom.  I collect them within myself to prevent the pain that will come.

Getting hurt countless times isn’t worth it.

To me, pain isn’t better than being numb.  You have no worries or problems when you hit nirvana, so it is a blessing.

I can’t be myself, not my pure self.

So it shall be better if I was nothing at all.  Not anyone’s special person, or friend.  Not a sister, daughter, or  mother.

Just me.

But nothing more, and nothing less.