Kill Me

Just pump me through with formaldehyde,
It would be better than this.
Anything would.
The pain might leave,
the scarring won't heal,
but I won't be there to remember it,
and I'll be glad I'm not.
Nobody will care about the girl who never spoke.
They won't think about me for longer than they're "required" to.
They'll still tease me behind my back.
They still won't think to include me in their conversations.
But I'll be used to it,
no one will grieve,
no one will remember,
I won't live on in others.
I will finally physically resemble how I've felt all along.
My layers might unravel,
my bones might show through,
if anybody looked back and thought about it.
Maybe they'd finally realize.
Still I'd doubt it,
nobody ever cared enough to ask,
to mention,
to try and help.