Chapter 1: Weakness, Teachers, Death

Even though I am technically still a teen I feel like I have lived a million years and that my bones reak with aging wisdom. My soul is tormented by this growing, forceful age. My bones are starting to dismantle themselves, right underneath me, and my body grows heavier by the day. But I can't fight it; the weakness prevails over my once happy spirit.
I am like the master at disguising myself; nobody ever sees how I feel. The only problem I have is my eyes. The warm chocolate tone gives me away with ease. That is the underlying fact on why I don't trust teachers the most. I can't disguise these eyes that flaunt and bat their lashes at them and they sometimes see this prevailing weakness, crumbling me inside. The bold bruises on my heart are sought with wonder.
Of course, most of my teachers ignore me, which means my ultimate plan of becoming unnoticeable is working. But the question is do I want it to work? Do I want this pain that is ripping and biting a deep black hole in my chest to never go away? Do I like hurting myself to feel something? I am afraid mostly. That no one will take the stand for me. Sure nobody has too; they don't owe me anything. I have not deserved their precious help because I have done nothing honorable. I am average.
But my family don't understand me... They probably won't ever. It is full with hardcore bullies and rough sports players, so I play that role too. I dress like a boy to show my dad that I am one of them; well that and for the sole fact that it is comfortable. I love playing the sports too and I am good at them. I just don't take it so seriously that I have to become a professional and an all-star; I want to have fun.
Fun. Fun, for me, has somehow flown off to the greatest depths of the forests of Africa. I laugh all the time but I don't laugh when I am alone. My smile hurts around others but it feels lost behind the thickness of my lips when I lie alone. I hate being alone; Yet, I spend more than half the day with just these hands, just these legs, and just these eyes.
My eyes that cry.
I miss her, even though I do not show it. I stand up all day and night waiting to be alone. Then I burrow my head deep down into my pillow and I scream my hurt and pain out into a muffled sound. It is sad that all I deal with has resulted into a muffled sound.
I hate death. It is a horrible ending to lives we've lived. No matter how great or bad we were, we end up in a box. I hate the fact that I have to be boxed. How on Earth would God grab me in a box? The only other option is to be burnt into tiny ashes, which in reality is probably worst. It is actually kind of animalistic. Like were almost trying to disolve our significant other.

Well, I guess that's all I have to say today.
I'd love to speak to you again.
.Robert's Girl.