Read This After I DieMature

(Suicide does not kill you. Sadness does.)

Dear Mum and Dad;
Kylie and Am.

This note will be a rip
to all your self-born stitches,
but to not write this
would be worse.
Very, very much worse.

(This situation could be worse.)

By now you would have seen
the scars tallied in my skin 
(one for every day I lived)
and the depth of the death
in my heart. (too deep.)
And an apology is in need
but every word of forgiveness
is like coal in my mouth.
I am not sorry.
I am not in the slightest.

You think of living as life.
You think living is a gift
wrapped in hardship
but a prize on the inside.
You have to live through life
to get the prize of happiness.

(That metaphor applies to me; 
only, differently.
Life is a gift, wrapped in
hardships upon hardships aplenty,
and the quicker you open it
the faster you get the prize.
The prize, if not understood,
is death.)

But try to feel how I felt;
I could have laughed
but I could not have breathed.
I could have breathed
but I could not have lived.
And I could have lived
but I could not have survived.

This is, to what I believe,
utter horseshit to you.

I do not expect you to smile
nor do I expect you to stop
and think about why I am not alive.
I know it will be a while
but then the penny will drop
and you will be alright.

You will not understand 
why I had to die;
maybe no one will.
It is deep within me, 
a part of my thorny soul.

But, I just;
I just.
I just didn't want
to hurt anymore.


The End

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