You’ve been unable to sleep three nights in a row.
No, you haven’t always been this way.
You realize it is finally coming to an end.
You try to rest your head, and each time, your demons come alive.
They remind you how much better it would be to die.
They tell you, “Maybe this time, cut your wrists a little deeper”.
Blood is beautiful when it seeps out of a broken soul.
And your soul has been shattered for an eternity.
Yet you have found a coping system.
You have found ten ways to enjoy the hell you have grown into:
- Every single time you find that your world is on fire, you just pick out a marshmallow to roast.
- The pain no longer haunts you, you no longer hurt; you are numb now. Maybe dying might turn out to be the one thing that would awaken your soul again.
- Heaven and hell are both states of mind, and you have been through it all.
- You used to consider dying as an escape from this life. You have come to realize it is merely just an end to it. The blackness and emptiness of eternity is far more resting than the paradise your Sunday school teacher told you about when you were 9.
- You have died more than once…in your mind. And every single time, it was magnificent.
- Your best friend calls you beautiful. She rebukes you when you try to correct her that you are obviously ugly. She thinks it is self pity. She does not realize that you have come to accept that everybody is ordinary. When people tell themselves they are special, they do not comprehend that every other person tells themselves the same. If everyone is unique, then that makes them all identical.
- These days, you no longer leave your bed. It is easier to rot when you are not moving. Everybody else thinks you are just an indoor person. They are right. Only, you will soon be an indoor dead person.
- You started writing out a suicide note. You tried to explain why you were doing this. How much you had experienced in your existence and how you were screaming for help yet the words never left your mouth. You could only write one word. One painfully stretched out word. You wanted to write more, but that is all you could muster; yet nobody would read it now because it was covered in your blood.
- You started reading this and hoped it would have a happy ending; you desperately wanted an extra reason to be convinced you needed to live for one more day. Desperately hoping for something to keep you from crossing to the other side. But your mind was made up from the start, because you are the author of this.
- This was never meant to be a finished work…