Why Can't You Hear?

    I understand what it feels like to be mute. I'm screaming on the inside. I'm screaming on the outside. You they just don't hear me. I'm in a parking lot with hundreds of people, and nobody seems to hear a thing. You don't hear me. See those slits on my wrists? Or don't, even when I'm practically showing you. You don't want to see the truth, I suppose.
    I don't really want to die- I'm just in pain, and physically hurting feeling that pain you feel inside as you heart dies is the best way to become numb and not have to. I was sitting there screaming. Wailing. Yelling. Whispering. Why? Why couldn't they hear me? They were right next to me, in the car next to the one I was in. I didn't cry. I can't cry.
   I don't know how to cry, really. It never happens when  I need to. I cry over stupid things now, at the worst times. Tears pour down like rain because I'm tired and my brother finished the ice cream, or I get hit in the face with a beach ball. Why can't you hear me? I see you're smiling. 
   I can't smile. I can scream. That's the extent of the emotion I can show at this moment. I don't want to die, but self-harm isn't exactly the path I'm supposed to go down if I don't feel that way. I still cut myself, slicing my wrists or my legs with a razor, even scissors. A knife, once or twice.  
   I'm cold. That has a triple meaning. My heart is cold, my body's cold, my soul is more freezing than the Arctic. 
   For someone who doesn't want to die, it's strange that I'm still into self-inflicted pain. I just want to stop the pain, though. I just want it to stop. The angst, the anger, the rage, the depression. 
   To be numb: Either use Xanax, the medication, and live in a rubber room for the rest of your life, or copy my strategy to living life: Put up a mask. Become half of who they want, and if that's not enough, block out their negativity with yours. 
   If you're not like me, you're not "suicidal"(which I think is a very dangerous generalization, because most of us don't want to die, we just want the pain to go away, and if hurting yourself is the only way to numb the pain, so be it.) I know that you still have worries, fears, anxieties, but you don't get it. Not exactly. and that's not your fault. You could dig yourself into a hole as deep as we have, but then you'll realize: It's kind of dark down here. 
   Just out of curiosity, which is very dangerous emotion for us if someone who "cares" about us, how many of you have cut before (have self-inflicted pain) one time or another?
   Everyone I know, they don't know me. They may know my name, they can know my age, perhaps they have an idea of my likes and dislikes, but that's not ME. They have been told (by myself) that I almost never get my hopes high about anything at all, but they don't believe me, although I'd never lie about something like that. That's probably almost the ONE true thing I've mentioned to them. 
   My brother has some notion that I've never liked or loved a guy, but he doesn't know how wrong he is. I asked him 'how do you know?' and he replied, 'I'm you're brother, I know these things.' Well, how on Earth does he 'know these things' when he doesn't listen to me AND I'm in love with his best friend? 
   My mom has it in her head that I don't have any friends. That's not true. I do have friends... I just don't like them as much as I'm expected to, or as much as they like me. If they like me at all. Which I'm not too sure about. 
   People always assume that I like things when I say I hate them, and they force me to do them. Well, I'm sorry. I just slit my wrists last night and they're still bleeding, so NO, I don't want to go to basketball practice! If I don't hate something as much as I think that I will, I automatically love it and want to do it everyday for the rest of my godforsaken life, according to them. But so far, this isn't even a reason to cut yourself. I haven't told you about the dark cloud that's always thunderstorming over my life yet. 
  My dad. 
   My dad hates me, and I'm not talking "Go to your room, young lady," for no apparent reason, I'm talking he goes out of his way to make me miserable. My dad has mentioned that I am going to rot in hell forever, I'm d*mning myself, that I hate him, that he can't love me, when I break his heart everyday (because I'm not good enough), that I'm evil, following Satan, and my mother is a witch. Apparently, everyday I murder him, and I can't possibly know what pain is, because I'm the one hurting him. Well, I'm sorry you didn't get a very good look at my arms. Would you like to look closer? I'm not allowed to call him "Dad" because he doesn't want to be my father (I agree, I don't think he should be). I'm a liar because I don't agree with him. He says he loved the "old me" but the "new me" isn't worth ****. 
   I guess I changed dramatically when I was six years old, because that's when I moved away from his abusive house. When I was six, according to him, I was beautiful, kind, compassionate, lovely, polite, perfect 'daddy-loving' angel, but I'm nothing like that anymore. Wow, thank you, daddy. (I wonder why I changed)? Now, I'm too sarcastic (Can't argue with that, Pop) and I'm rude and I'm turning into a monster. Why thank you. That was my life's goal. *bows*
   He also says that if it was up to him, and this country isn't Christian, I'd be killed for disobeying my father, according to the Bible. Glad you'd like to see me dead.
  He says he knows what God thinks, and he's so in touch with Him the way that I could never be, and that I'm worse than my brother sometimes and I'm so stubborn. But with my life, stubborn is what you have to be. I'm screaming, but you can't hear me. I'm dreaming about everything but it turns out to be only nightmares. 
   Figures it would be. 
   They say I think I'm so perfect, but they couldn't have missed the bull's eye any farther. I'm in touch with my faults the most that I can be. I know I'm fat, because that's all my mom tells me that all the time. I know my hair is stupid and ugly, because that's all they mention at school. I've been told that I don't take care of my skin and my hair and that's why they're so disgusting. They say my fingernails are like claws, and next they mention biting your nails is a bad habit. Well, I wonder why I'm a nervous wreck. I wear disgusting clothes. I shouldn't wear anything too prude or loose or anything with a V-neck too low. My shorts are too short, or they just look bad on me, or weird, or stupid, or they're just too dirty. My shirt is either see-through or too old or too new or uncomfortable. My eyes are plain. My cheeks and nose are either covered in zits or eczema or slightly tilted the wrong way, according to my mother (but I never see this, why?). 
  To my mom, I'm lazy. To my dad, I'm evil AND lazy. To my teachers, I don't put enough effort in my studies. To my health personnel, I'm lazy, and don't seem to get it. To my friends, I'm stupid, annoying, ugly, weird, strange, ignorant. And they're the NICE people at my snobby school. 

   After all of this, for the people who know me, should I say: It's not you, it's me or it's not me, it's you. You decide.