She is me.
Just not really.
With maybe a high calorie day in between.
But are they?
They speak words of anger.
Tired of being.
Tired of feeling.
Tired of seeing what you are doing to yourself and those around you (because contrary to popular belief you are not blind).
Tired of living.
You wish nothing but the comfort of the cold forgiving hands of an early death.
And they are a comfort.
To normal people maybe not.
But you stopped being normal a long long time ago.
You stopped being you a long time ago.
Now you are hallow.
A shell waiting to expire.
Because everyone has an expiration date.