I don’t fantasize about killing myself anymore but the major part of me is still fuming and resentful for everything that’s happened, and sometimes when the rage slips out I am shocked I could ever contain this madness in the first place.
This is how you kill someone: You don’t talk to them, you pretend they don’t exist. You love them, then you leave them. This is how I will kill myself.
They say when you are falling down in life, you meet all the people you walked on while you were climbing up.
Its funny since all the people I thought I could turn to seemed to have disappeared like they never existed.
When I am gone, my bones will be here a little while longer to keep you company.
“The memories of my love you will exist elsewhere, unseen, untouched, unheard, but felt. This love will show you redemption; this love will mend your regrets.”
Anything can be a trigger if you’re broken enough. It could be a malicious rumour spread by a jealous friend. It could be a vague comment from my mother spoken in her seasoned tone of bitter disappointment. It could be a well written song that sings too much truth of the past. It could be anything that hits too close to the mark.
If I could kill myself tonight and no one would miss me, I think I would. If only I was a little more selfish, a little more brave, and a little more sure of which method would cause the least pain. It would be a temporary solution to a permanent problem. So even if I’m buried ten feet underground, you’ll still hear my ghost cry out your name. I just won’t be able to call you anymore, and you won’t have to suffer seeing my name on your screen again.
The sadness weighs me down, tires me out, and sometimes I want nothing more than to just forget. But that would be too selfish.
Suicide is just another luxury I cannot afford.
Because there are people who would care, who would hurt, who would never forgive me, and I love them too much to make them cry.
So I might do it methodically, like the answer to a mathematical equation.
Sharp, straight red lines, and when the blood creeps through the gaps,
I’d be filled with a perverted sense of calm. When the pain joins in, my breathing syncs with the ache.
When the scars form, I begin all over again.