I can't breathe. 

Reading over the events of today adds oil to my already enormous blaze of pent up emotions. Why do I even read the events of my roommate's day?

My heart hurts. 

My head is spinning.

My veins hurt from the fast pumping blood.

My face is hideous. There's no doubt about that. I know it, everyone else knows it, and I know everyone knows. He probably hates the fact that he has to share an apartment with someone as disgusting as me.

Looking in the mirror doesn't help. I clutch my chest in a desperate attempt to stop the heart burn, to slow the heart beats. I hold my breath to stop the annoying hiccups that keep bursting through my lungs, constricting my throat.

I'm a stain on this world. I shouldn't exist. I do nothing but make everyone else miserable. Maybe I should just keep holding my breath. If I die, then I'll no longer be a burden. No one will miss me anyway. No, my friends won't miss me. Are they really my friends? Do they even think of me as their friend? They probably only hang around me out of pity. He's lucky; he seems to have friends who genuinely like him for who he his.

My jokes aren't even funny. I can't even tease them. I mean, what right do I have to tease them, when I'm a piece of trash myself? But he can so easily make light jokes and just as easily tease his friends playfully. I wish I could be more like him.

My hold on the journal is so tight I fear the pages might rip. How can he be so happy? How is he so optimistic? How can he just push every negative comment to the back of his mind and never think of it again? I don't understand. I can't understand. I'm so ugly, so revolting. How is he so confident? He falls for himself? Why couldn't I have been born with a face as attractive as his? Why couldn't I have been born with his confidence? I wish I could look in the mirror and fall for myself.

Ugly noises make their way out of my disgusting mouth. It's me trying to hold in my sobs. What right do I have to cry? I'm a mistake. I do everything wrong. I only bear burdens on others. I shouldn't feel any sort of despair at all. What right do I have? I'm the one creating all the terrible things in this world.

My hands are shaking so much. My eyes are so blurry I can't read the words he wrote anymore. The last few words I can manage out are beautiful, permanent, and marks. The sounds coming out of my mouth are no longer sounds of suffocation, but the sounds of heavy breathing. Oh no, I'm hyperventilating. My chest rises up and down in an irregular pattern in the mirror. I see myself through the mirror. I see the grotesque tear streaks. I see my bloated, red eyes. I see his journal...and my wrists. My wrists. My red, ugly, scarred wrists. My tears drop onto the cuts and the still fresh ones sting. Why did I do this? Why did I do this to myself to make myself even uglier? What did I think this would do? My chest hurts and my hands are shaking so bad. Everything hurts, and I'm sick of seeing my pathetic self through the mirror. A loud yell escapes from the bottom of my stomach. I can't see.

I can't see. What's going on? I can't see anything. Another tear rolls out through the wrinkles around my eyes. Oh, my eyes are closed. Why are my eyes closed? I open my eyes. My hands are empty. The mirror is gone. Where's his journal? Where's the mirror? I look around warily. His book is on the floor, looking as if it'd been deserted. What are those things around it? Glass? Shards. It's glass shards. I look back up. No, it's the mirror. Broken.

What have I done? What have I done? I just ruined not only his journal, but also his mirror. These aren't mine. I didn't pay for these. And I don't have the money to pay for them either. What have I done? What do I do? What do I do? My eyes focus on one of the larger glass shards. I can see myself. Myself that shouldn't exist. Another cry escapes out of my dry mouth. Another cut is slit. And another. And another. And yet another.

It hurts. It hurts so much. I forgot the ice. I forgot the ice again.

"Idiot!" I'm now seated on the floor with bandages around my wrists. I should clean up. I slowly pull myself up, the pull of gravity making me feel heavier than usual. It's hard, but I manage to bring myself up anyway, and slowly but surely the floor is free of broken glass.

I'm now sitting once again on the now clean floor, looking at my bandaged wrists. He said he had marks too. But he thinks they're...beautiful? Mesmerizing? His must be. His entire existence is a blessing. He's like a literal angel. If he told me he was one, well, I'd believe it. His scars...no, they're not even scars. I wish I could be more like him, with beautiful scars instead of ugly ones like mine. I wish I could be more like him, but I'm not. I'm me. And unlike him, I'm ugly. hideous. A grotesque creature. I don't belong in his world.

The tears don't stop even as I'm writing a note on a sticky pad. I sigh and paste it where the mirror used to be and trudge my way to my bed.

Another night wasted.