{More of a rant than a poem, but I need to get it out}

Why do I get out of bed, if I know I'm going want to curl up and die.

Why do I look at the mirror, when I know I'm going hate myself.

Why do I keep cutting, when I know it's not going wipe away the past.

Why when I hulusinate, it's never good.

Why do I deserve, what I got in the past.

......
Why am I still breathing.