Lasting

I don't want to be this way.
Feeling all this hate and anger towards the world.
It was a joke for awhile, but soon the joke was bound to become a reality.
A living hell.
I sit in my room, alone, thinking too much.
Way too much.
It shouldn't be like this.
I shouldn't have to feel this way.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and see something foreign to me.
The crease above my forehead just won't disappear.
They ask, "Are you okay?"
I slowly reply with, "Yeah. I'm fine."
Inside I'm screaming with every ounce of anger, "I'm not alright! I'm broken inside."
They don't know.
They're not aware of what goes on after the three o'clock bell chimes throughout the halls.
When I step into the car.
The immediate and constant feeling of "You didn't try hard enough," or "Once you leave that place, none of your friends will care about you."
I went inside the house and punched the wall in my room, leaving a blue and purple tinted bruise along my knuckles.
I even try to run away.
I sprint to the end of the street trying to find any kind of feeling that could hide the emotions running through my body, only to realize that I have nowhere to go.
Somehow turning back around everytime.
"If I can just last a few more months," I repeat to myself daily.
Trying to ignore the fact that I might never be able to escape it. My sister didn't.
I start to question my strength.
"You can last," I whispered silently to myself. "You can last."