Close your eyes. Calm down. Breathe. These were all things the more sensible part of my brain had told me that dreary night. On that night, I hated myself. I just wanted to tear myself apart. And I almost did. I thrashed around in my bed, when everyone else thought I was sleeping, tearing at my skin with my nails. I didn’t care as I saw blood bloom out of the red marks my nails had raked across my arm. Tears didn’t come; I just felt empty inside. I wanted to scream, but I knew I couldn’t. I had become so used to suffering silently by myself, but it never became any easier. I didn’t expect it to. And yet, I still hated myself. Hated myself for no other particular reason, other than the fact that I was human, and destroyed things, without even meaning to. Hated myself because, I, like so many others, destroy almost everything I touch, and I cannot help it; it is part of being human. I don’t want to be a human anymore. I want to be a bird, a songbird. Then at least, I wouldn’t have to keep destroying things. Then, I could just fly away from all of my troubles and sing until my throat was sore.