Life. It seems to be a cup of tea for some. And then there are a few of us, like me, who’d rather be buried 6 feet under than to breathe the hatred filled air. All I ever think about or want is to self-harm, kill myself, sleep, cry, or rethink every wrong thing that’s happened to me.
My reasons for living
- Too scared to end my already dead life
Yeah, I know if I’m sooooo sad that I want to kill myself that I should already, but I dunno.
Something in the universe always whispers to me, “Wait another day and it will happen.”
I just don’t know what ‘it’ is. And I’m not a patient person, so me waiting for ‘it’ literally drives me nuts. But maybe it’ll be worth it, after all IT is what is keeping me from committing suicide.
But everyday gets longer, my patience and tears run dry, I become more depressed than the day before, and it’s just another day closer to me completely breaking.
I lay in my bed, my head buried in my makeup, blood, and tear stained pillow, listening to sad songs on repeat until my head aches from the ongoing pain in my body.
My legs become numb, making it hard to get up to get a new sweater or blanket or to go piss.
My hands are like murderers, taking a knife or blade or scissors, cutting into my wounded skin.
My mind is dark and foggy, like some sort of severe storm is causing destruction.
And my skin becomes a faded gray color, my hair becomes greasy and tangled from me not washing or brushing it for days, my breath smells horrid because each morning I was still asleep, and at night I’m writing in my journal, my face covered in salty tears.
I’m a mess and at this point I could care less about myself.
But maybe my one day will come soon.
I just.. I need it soon.
I need my miracle.