Something very personal about me:
I've had suicidal thoughts since Jr. High. I've been giving myself scars since I was little. I bury my emotions until something sets me off the deep end then I explode. Hate, rage, fear, death, and pain, so much pain, comes running out of me. Leaving myself weak and wanting for the sweet taste of death.
I hate it here. I say as I cut my left arm.
I want to leave. I watch the blood pool on my arm
Nobody care about me anymore. I cut my other arm
Everyone would love the silence. I watch the blood spill over my arm
Everyone would move on without much thought of me. I reach to the side of me and pick up a gun.
I wouldn't have to be laughed at anymore. I unlock the gun.
I wouldn't have to feel the pain and hurt at all. I place the gun under my chin.
I would be free from everything. I take a deep breath in to steady myself.
I wouldn't be able to see him anymore. I move the gun away from my face.
I wouldn't be able to hear his laugh. I redo the safety lock
I wouldn't be able to see him smile again. I place the gun behind me.
I wouldn't be able to love him. I stand up.
I wouldn't be able to enjoy the little things. I walk over to the sink.
I wouldn't be able to laugh. I was away the blood, careful of the cuts.
I wouldn't be able to be in the rain. I smear antibiotics on it.
I wouldn't be able to see the snow. I tightly bandage the cuts.
I wouldn't be able to read. I place a towel over the blood spots.
I wouldn't be able to breath. I open the door.
I would miss everything. I clime into bed.
I would miss him. I close my eyes.
I would be alone. I drift off to sleep.